


Brass and the Boundless Sea

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Description of Assault, Established Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Assault, Not SPECTRE Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 55
Words: 123,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is kidnapped by a woman with a grudge who knows more about him than he does.  Slowly, secrets that were buried deep in the past worm their way to the surface.  As Bond tries to save his lover, MI6 begins to crumble and a ring of powerful arms dealers, long content to leave MI6 alone, step forward.  Amidst treason, lies, and violence, Q and Bond must strive to survive.</p><p>But who and what, after all, can withstand the test of time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perceptions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OceanAndSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanAndSpace/gifts).



It took every ounce of training that Bond had all but beaten into him not to open his eyes.

When Bond proposed to teach Q a thing or two about self-defense, Q had been glib about it all.  He reasoned that it couldn’t be so hard not to open one’s eyes when first waking up, in the possible but unlikely event that he was knocked out and captured.  Bond had been less than amused that Q wasn’t taking it seriously, and Q had turned that into a joke as well, at least until he realized that Bond was well and truly angry with him and not just posturing.  By that time, it was too late: all Q could do was allow the agent to exit the premises to let off steam, hopefully by himself, though Q was no fool.

When he next saw the agent, Q was quick to try to make amends.  They’d talked, and Bond had explained: he saw things, terrible things, every time he was sent into the field.  He knew what he did to his enemies when he came across a personal weakness, and he didn’t want Q to be subject to the same sorts of tactics.  To that end, Bond drilled Q for all manner of contingencies.  While he privately thought that some of the things Bond insisted upon were rather foolish, he did not point them out.

Now, as he lay on a cold, hard floor, Q was grateful for his boyfriend’s incessant paranoia regarding Q’s safety.

With his eyes quite shut — and that had been a feat, for his first instinct had been, as predicted, to open them and glance about — Q took in his surroundings with his other senses.  The floor was more than just cold and hard, it was concrete.  He could feel, by way of his cheek, its uneven, gravelly surface.  Given that he could feel the same cold behind him, and that he could hear very little other than a faint humming noise, he gathered that he was both inside and likely underground, in an unfinished basement of some variety.  He tried to determine the source of the humming.  It seemed to be coming from above him, a tidbit of information which Q quickly set aside as useless given that he was on the floor and everything would be above him.

Very slowly, for Q could not tell without opening his eyes if he was well and truly alone in the room, Q tried his hands.  They were tingling and cold, and he soon discovered why: there was a tight binding around his wrists, cutting off much of his circulation.  He didn’t feel the telltale pull of handcuffs, nor did his bindings feel metal at all.  Instead, he guessed he had been trussed up with a polymer rope, something smooth and strong that would neither fray nor break.

Q took a deep breath, hoping that the change in breathing pattern between asleep and awake had gone unnoticed.  There was the heavy smell of bleach, and above that, something reminiscent of almonds.

He held in a huff of disappointment.  He couldn’t find anything useful in what he’d gleaned about his surroundings other than the obvious: he’d been knocked out with something strong, he’d been kidnapped, and now was being held for unknown purpose.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was, as he expected, in a below-ground basement.  The floor was stained with dark patches that he hoped were not blood.  He could see a high window, the bottom edge lined with grass on the other side of the pane.  Sunlight filtered in.  Assuming he was still in the same time zone, he’d been out for at least six hours.  If he’d been moved, well, all bets were off.

The humming noise came from the overhead lights.  Q found himself disappointed that it wasn’t a computer or something else he knew how to work with, not that he could what with his hands bound tightly.  The fluorescent bars glared dolefully as he warily eyed the rest of the room.

There was a brushed metal table in the very middle of the oblong space.  Two chairs sat, one on either side.  In the far left corner above the only door in the room, a camera jutted from the ceiling, its red light blinking at him.

 _Someone is recording_ , Q thought.  A person could do a lot of things with camera footage — blackmail, bribery, ransom.  Q’s mind reminded him of those slippery sites on the dark side of the internet where people tortured and murdered other beings for entertainment.  His stomach churned at the thought, and in the process reminded him that the hadn’t eaten in well over twenty-four hours.

Q sat up.  Immediately, his head swam, and he had to lean back against the concrete wall to try to get his bearings.  He was sweating profusely, he noted.  His body did not feel all his own.  In fact, he had the distinct sensation of looking down on himself, rumpled and small against the back wall of what appeared to be, for all intents and purposes, an interrogation room.  He took a breath, seven counts, exhaled, seven counts, and repeated.  His heart rate refused to go down.

Whoever was watching on the other side of the camera had seen him sit up, Q realized, which meant that he had little time before someone came to him.  Though he was not tied to the wall in any way, Q found that he could not easily stand.  He crumpled forward when he tried, and every movement felt like swimming through molasses.  On his last attempt to move, his glasses leapt from his face and landed more than a meter in front of him.

The transition from reality to abstraction was seamless.  The chair became an indeterminate blob, the table a dull rectangle.  The lights eclipsed the ceiling, and the walls merged into one panoramic circle.

Q shut his eyes to stave off a headache.

With a painful shriek, the door to the interrogation room opened.


	2. Footage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is worried about Q. Mallory thinks he's paranoid. It's worse than either of them expect.

Mallory was having his worst day yet since assuming the title of “M”.

It had begun, as many terrible things do, with a lack of properly prepared tea.From there, between global mishaps, idiot diplomats who expected that they could shoot their mouths off without consequence, and a general abundance of moronic behavior all the way around, it had spiraled downhill to become a singularly bad day.

While he would have liked nothing more than to cancel all of his appointments, close the curtains, and pour himself a drink, he lacked the luxury of time.Instead, he had Moneypenny screening any and all visitors while he sorted through what all he had to get done.He needed to talk to Garrett about Nigeria, that was top priority.After that would come the French situation, and then—

“Sir?” Moneypenny slid into his office and shut the door behind her.

“Whoever it is, I’m not here.”

“I’m afraid you have to be.It’s 007.”

“I told him, he’s not cleared for another combat operation for another few days.Tell him to brush up on his French,” M said, returning his attention to the reports on his desk.After France, they needed to work on the US dialogues—

“Sir, it’s about Q.He never returned to his flat last night.”

Mallory blinked several times.“Regardless of what 007 seems to think, Q’s comings and goings are all his own.So the boffin had a night out.I hope it did him some good.”

“007 does not seem to think that he—”Moneypenny was interrupted by a loud thump on the door.She glared at the agent through the door as she continued,“went anywhere of his own volition.He hasn’t come in to the labs today, either.”

“Q never misses a day,” Mallory said.“Perhaps he wanted a vacation.God knows he needs one.He could have just asked me, but this sort of transgression by one of our best is easy to overlook.”

Mallory’s biggest headache pounded on the door again.“Oh dear Moneypenny,” Mallory heard, “you’ve a telephone call!”

“And then there are others,” Mallory said stiffly, nodding at the door.“Paranoia runs rampant in the double-0 division.I was rather hoping never to see one in love, but whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, as they say.Let him in.I’ll handle it.”

Moneypenny looked ready to kill a man, and that man would be one James Bond.If she chose to finish the job she’d started just before Mallory had gotten his promotion, he would have pardoned her on the spot and offered her an extended vacation wherever she desired.Instead, she said, “Very well.Excuse me.”She stepped out, and 007 slipped in.

“Hello?” Mallory heard Moneypenny say before 007 shut the door.

“He didn’t go for a night out,” 007 spat.“I would know.Besides that, he’d be here by now.Something’s happened.Requesting permission to find him.”

“If everyone reacted this way when you disappeared, our entire budget would be spent on the manhunt, and you still wouldn’t come back until you felt like it,” Mallory said.The remark earned him a glare.  

“Q isn’t me.”

“No.No, I dare say he isn’t,” Mallory replied.“I don’t think England could handle more than one of you at any given time.Some people think we shouldn’t have to handle one of you at all.”

Bond ignored the blatant threat.“Requesting permission to find Q.”

Mallory folded his hands in front of him.“I understand that sentimentality isn’t in your nature.However, I was given to understand the same of my predecessor, who, as it happened, also had something of a soft spot for our dear Q, not to mention for you.”He cleared his throat and watched the agent before him carefully.“I’ve been reliably informed that you and Q have broken almost every interoffice relationship protocol MI6 has ever issued in the short time that you’ve been together.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“007, you’ve been joined at the hip ever since you entered this ill-fated enterprise.”Mallory appraised 007’s reactions, or lack thereof.He would have suspected the agent of not listening at all, but he knew better.Part of what made him such a dangerous and valuable asset was his ability to pick up on information without appearing to care.In this case, it seemed that 007 was well and truly concerned for the wellbeing of his Quartermaster.Mallory, however, wasn’t sold on the notion that there was anything to worry about, at least not with regards to Q.“Have you considered that perhaps Q thought a bit of space might be in order?”

There was a reaction.Subtle, yes, but 007 was always subtle when it came to personal matters, at least according to his records.His right hand clenched, ever so slightly, at the notion that Q might want to be away from him.

007 opened his mouth, but the slam of Mallory’s office door as it made a perfect one-hundred-and-eighty degree arc to hit the opposing wall effectively silenced him.

“Sorry, sir,” Moneypenny said without a degree of remorse.

“Quite all right, just demolish the furnishings.What on earth is the matter now?” Mallory asked.

“That was 004.It’s Q,” Moneypenny said.Mallory thought she looked sick as she glanced at 007, who stood incrementally taller but who otherwise did not move.“There’s footage and— You have to see for yourself.”

“Let’s,” Mallory said.He hit a button under his desk and a screen appeared on the right hand wall.Moneypenny sent along the file, and after a few moments of terse silence, it filled the screen.The footage, as Moneypenny referred to it, commenced immediately.

As they watched, M felt his blood pressure rise several digits.He breathed a shallow sigh and risked a glance at 007.

For all that Mallory was drowning in his own paperwork in a singularly ill-tempered state, he was no fool, and he hadn’t lost his wits yet.He had seen such an expression as Bond wore on a man before, back when he had worked the field.It had prefaced grand-scale murder that bordered on genocide.Mallory had been lucky to survive.

“You wanted orders?” Mallory asked quietly, turning his attention back to the screen.The footage appeared to automatically replay itself.“You have them.We’re going to find them.Retrieve Q.You have a license to kill.”

“Thank you, sir.”

 


	3. Thermodyamics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the beta work!

_Six hours remain_

 

R watched 007 with fascination as the agent stood beside Q’s workbench deep in the bowels of Q Division.  Division heads, executives, administrators, agents, boffins, secretaries, one of the janitors who had a knack for noticing odd details — everyone had flooded the main floor about an hour ago.  They had all been brought in to try to unravel the mystery of what now played on every available monitor: the footage that had come through earlier in the day, which R shuddered to so much as glance at and which had everyone stumped.  Even the boffins of Q Division, for all of their alleged genius, scrambled their little brains as they tried to glean anything other than the obvious from the handful of clips.  So far, no one had had any luck on any front.  Sweat coated R’s palms.  At the front of the room, a timer ticked off the seconds until the kidnappers made good on their threats against Q.  

R fixed her gaze on 007 once more.  Had the circumstances not demanded otherwise, she would have found it cute how he stood adjacent to where Q should have been, like a dog waiting for the return of its master.  She noted his posture — stiff, to be sure, and dangerous, but that was the nature of double-0 agents.  He was too far from a rookie to be twitchy, but R noticed that he nonetheless continued to check his sidearm.  Now, 007 fingered the hilt as if ready to pull it on anyone daft enough to come within a few paces without something important to say.  In fact, R thought that such a thing was far from implausible.

He had stolen that gun, R remembered, after Siberia.  R had been called in, just in case, and while she’d been terrified, she’d had Q to give orders and run the show.  Without Q, no one would have made it out alive.

Q had known that 007 had failed to return his sidearm following his return to dear England.  Still, Q had filed it as destroyed while abroad.  Perhaps he thought that 007 deserved something of a break.

Shaking her head, R put thoughts of Siberia aside.  It hadn’t been a colossal failure, but it was nothing she wanted to think about. 

“Don’t you have something you should be doing?”

R’s eyes shot up from 007’s hands to his face, where his question hung in the air.  He was looking at her, and his frown was impassive at best, outright murderous at worst.  R straightened her posture, keeping her hands planted on her hips to prevent shaking.

“Did you have something in mind?” she replied.  She dug her nails into her side as she cursed herself.  Sometimes her brain supplied her mouth with retorts before any sort of a filter could kick in.  She was good with her students, and she rarely talked with anyone else when she didn’t have a prepared lecture, so it wasn’t something that gave her trouble often.  Now, when it mattered, was not one of the times for such a mishap, and yet.

R thought that the agent’s eyes narrowed just a bit.  “Are you truly so desperate for a promotion that you are unwilling to assist in the recovery of your superior?” Bond asked.

It was R’s turn to frown.  She stopped herself from correcting 007’s assumption that she was next in line for the throne, so to speak, and instead answered the question.  “Far from it.  I intend to stay out of the way so as not to bungle operations.  I’m not a computer scientist,” she replied coolly.  She damned the sweat that was starting to form on her palms.  Murder scenarios played out in her mind.  If 007 killed her on the spot, what would the rest of Q Division do?  Maybe they would help dispose of her carcass.  More likely, they’d leave her there until Q was found.  She shouldn’t have gone for snarky, not under the circumstances.  She and Q were not emotionally close, not by any stretch of the imagination, but even she knew that he and 007 were, as they say, a _thing_.  “I’m afraid I’m of no use in this situation,” she added.

“Then why are you still here?”

“Bond.  R.”  M’s voice was a sharp warning.  R did not allow herself to release the breath she was holding for fear that 007 would notice it.  “Unless either of you have something of import to say, remain silent.  We have a missing division head and not much time to locate him.”

R scratched the point of her index finger with her thumb and frowned as 007 turned his attention elsewhere.  She had never quite determined her role in the day-to-day workings of Q Division.The old M had set down a complex set of rules regarding when Q was in charge, when M was in charge, and when R was in charge, but there were so many caveats and addenda that she had decided when she was brought in just to play it by ear.  She had the inclination that now was one of the scenarios where she was supposed to take command of the situation, at least according to the old M’s rules, but with the new M and his entourage crowding Q Division, she was at loose ends, just like the tetchy double-0 now running his fingers across the bench top.

R sighed in silence, watching the endless, thankfully muted, replay of the footage of Q.  She wanted to do _something_ , but any action she might have taken would likely have made matters worse rather than better.  R’s real expertise was in nuclear astrophysics.  She taught at Cambridge and served as a regular on the academic lecture circuit.  The old M had brought her into MI6 as a consultant on thermonuclear weaponry and the Trident Programme after their old consultant retired, and gradually, her permissions had been increased.  Now, though she still maintained consultant status, her presence was mandatory whenever a Class Orange or higher alert was called.  The majority of MI6 personnel disappearances ranked Yellow, but Q’s disappearance had been labelled a Class Orange not five minutes before her first lecture of the day.  She had cancelled class and locked up her labs before rushing to Vauxhall, leaving her students to blow up her mobile with impassioned pleas in the name of science.   Frankly, science could wait.  Though she felt useless to MI6 for the moment, she couldn’t walk away, not with so much at stake.

To tell the truth, R was privately both grateful and sad that she was unqualified to help: grateful because it meant that there was no imminent nuclear threat that had spontaneously surfaced, sad because Q was, for all that they hardly interacted, something of a friend.

R shook her head.  It said a lot about her social life that she considered a man she had spoken to on all of three occasions to be her friend.

R quietly left the floor of Q Division and made herself a cup of tea for lack of anything better to do.  The routine settled the mind: put on the kettle, let it boil, steep the tea.  R didn’t like Q’s preferred Earl Grey because of the smoky overtones: instead, she drank green tea, grassy and warm.  It reminded her of home.  She used the Scrabble mug that had been given to her by the previous consultant and returned to the floor.

The footage was still playing on an endless loop on every monitor across the room.  Altogether, it was just under two minutes long.  It started, all at once, in the middle of Q’s abduction.  Other than Q, three figures were visible.  All wore masks.  Two had taken hold of Q’s arms while the third jabbed Q’s neck with a hypodermic needle.  After a short period, Q sunk into unconsciousness on the street.

At that point, the scene changed and the voiceover began.

“Before we begin,” a mechanical voice stated, “you should remember that you brought this upon yourself.”

The camera showed Q, hands tied behind his back, held up by another masked man.  They stood against a nondescript gray wall.  There was one dark stain visible on the floor, which looked like it had sustained severe water damage.  The man held a blade to Q’s throat.  His mouth was at Q’s ear, and Q shuddered in tandem with the movement of lips under the mask.

“You have brought us to the brink of ruin,” the voice continued.  The masked man tossed Q against the wall as if he were an undesired plaything.  The man began to kick, and Q curled up in a ball to try to protect himself.  Still, blow after blow hit his core with a series of sickening crunches.

“Now we will do the same to you.”

The man lifted Q by his collar and hit him, hard, across the face.  The slap resounded.  The attacker balled his hand to make a fist and repeated the motion again, and again.  There was a pause, and again, and again.

“If you wish to see him alive, you will come to us, to the place it all began, to negotiate.  Come alone.  You know who you are.  You have eight hours.”

The video ended with a parting shot of Q on the ground, bleeding from various cuts to his face and hands.  He appeared to be crying.

In Q Division, the screens barely went black before the footage repeated yet again.

R took a sip of tea before it was quite finished steeping to stop herself from throwing up.

 


	4. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond looks for Q -- and finds something interesting for his troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to mistflyer1102 for the lovely beta-work!

* * *

_Four hours remain_

 

Bond fidgeted and scowled while he waited for anything so much as resembling a lead.

He’d already been back to the place where Q had been abducted.  He’d been taken right in front of his flat: a handful of steps and Q would have been tucked away inside, sealed behind almost every security measure known to man and a few known only to Q himself.Q had been just three doors down from absolute safety. 

As Bond anticipated, there was nothing left.  The street was wiped clean of any evidence and no one had seen anything.Whoever had taken Q was careful: no traces of anyone or anything left behind; not a whisper except the footage.  No fibers, no prints, no traces—it was as if they were never there at all.

And yet, his kidnappers seemed to be flamboyant and stupid beyond imagination.  The footage was a bold move, but they didn’t even name their real target, much less the place they meant to rendezvous.   _“You know who you are”_ , the voiceover said.  Bond knew the message was for him, but he hadn’t the slightest idea who would have taken Q.  It wasn’t Quantum’s style, and Bond didn’t recognize either the room in which they kept Q or any of his masked kidnappers.  Where on earth was the place it all began?

He knew Mallory was disappointed.  No doubt he thought that the aging double-0 was forgetting his own enemies and jeopardizing an important asset in the process.

Bond never forgot.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to keep looking at the footage.  The more he watched it, the more he thought about what Q might have been able to do had Bond just been a little faster to teach him, a little more patient, a little _better_.  He remembered a conversation that they’d had just after Q started to take the training seriously.

_“So, are you going to teach me to hold up under torture, 007?”_ Q had asked.  His smile had been completely incongruous with his words, and yet Bond remembered smiling back.  He knew Q wasn’t being flighty, not now.  This was just Q’s way of saying that he was nervous.  Bond could handle nervous.

_“Eventually,”_ he’d said.   _“That one’s fun.”_

_“You know, our definitions of ‘fun’ vary rather widely,”_ Q had said.  The smile hadn’t abated.   _“But do go on.  I await your no-doubt inspired instructions.”_

Except, Bond hadn’t gotten a chance to teach Q how to hold up under torture.

Bond allowed himself a soft sigh, but no more than that.  He was surrounded by too many unknowns.  Most of the boffins answered directly to Q, and Moneypenny could be classified as safe, but R was an unknown Bond hadn’t counted on dealing with, and Mallory’s people were politicians first, agents second.  Bond didn’t trust them not to abandon Q for fear of getting their hands dirty.  With Bond’s M dead and Q kidnapped, the number of people Bond trusted who were readily accessible had dwindled to zero.

The footage began to play again.  No progress had been made as to Q’s location.  Bond wanted to hit something, preferably the men in the video.

He refrained from damaging anything when he saw Moneypenny leaving her station with her entourage to come join him near the back of the floor.  Her companions looked after her as she walked but were smart enough not to follow.Even secretaries knew the double-0 section had a tendency to be unpredictable.Even Bond didn’t want to be near himself now.

“Do you have something?” Bond asked when Moneypenny came close enough.  He ought to have been ashamed at how desperate he sounded, but he didn’t have the energy left to mask the panic in his voice.

“No.  Bond, there are only four hours left,” she whispered; perhaps she didn’t trust the people in the room, either.  They were drawing a few stares, but she didn’t seem to mind and Bond was shameless, so they were ignored.  “We need to try something else.”

“The footage can’t be traced?” he asked.

“They’re trying, but something’s strange about the coding.  They’re good, but they aren’t Q,” she said.  “Even if they do manage it, it will take a while.  We need a different tactic.”

“Did you have something in mind?”

Moneypenny stood in a grim silence that meant no.  Bond looked at the floor.

“I’ve never seen that room before,” he said.  “I’ve told them, and—”

“I believe you,” she said.  Bond wanted to believe it, if only to cushion his pride, but he couldn’t because she didn’t mean it and they both knew it.  “But we need something to go on.”

“We?” Bond repeated, a bit sharp.  Moneypenny drew back.

“Look, I know you…” She trailed off when she saw Bond’s expression.  Unwisely, she pressed on.  “I know he matters to you, and I know you’d kill if it meant he didn’t get hurt.  I know that.”

“Do you have a point?”

Moneypenny sighed.  “I suppose not,” she said.  Her smile was tight as she walked away.  “Get some fresh air,” she said, just a little louder.  “Might do you some good.”

Bond frowned at her retreating back, then glanced around the room.  Eyes averted as soon as he lighted on them.  Angry, he retreated to the only place he knew wouldn’t be watched or pitied: Q’s office.

He shut the door with care—slamming doors always startled Q, and even with Q missing it was still Q’s office, Q’s rules—and gingerly sat on the small sofa Q kept for when he needed to sleep at MI6, which was more often than Bond liked.  Moneypenny was right, they needed another tactic.  She, like Mallory, thought Bond had something tucked somewhere in the recesses of his memories, but Bond had wracked them again and again.  He had never seen those people, had never seen that room, didn’t know where to go.

Bond leaned his head against the wall and hit it once for good measure.  The office smelled like Q, all smoke and gunmetal, but the space was almost insultingly small, to small to belong to a man with such a big brain.  Bond had objected to it even before they’d gotten together, but Q claimed to like it, so it remained his.  It certainly felt like him.  The walls were painted a deep red and lined with heavy dark bookcases.  Bond had been surprised to learn that for all that Q loved his technology, he preferred not to read on a shiny bright screen when he absolutely didn’t have to.  There were a few shelves of old files, all sorted and locked, but those weren’t what reminded Bond of Q.  No, Bond could see Q in the books that he kept there.  All of the works of fiction that Q kept at work were duplicates of what he had at home, and though he hadn’t so much as cracked the spine on most of them, he said that they made it feel like the space actually belonged to him.  There was _Ulysses_ , in a place of prominence at eye-level, and beside it _The Housekeeper and the Professor_ ; _We_ and _1984_ sat side-by side not too far away; _The Sun Also Rises_ and _Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell _flanked _Macbeth_ and _King Lear_ —and, of course, _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_ and _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_ rounded out a rather eclectic collection.

_“If Q were here, he’d have it done in no time,”_ Moneypenny had said.

So, what would Q do?

Bond moved from the sofa and approached Q’s desk.  While his workstation on the main floor had been meticulous, his desk was all Q, which was to say, for all that his tech was streamlined and neat, the space itself was an absolute mess.  Schematics, equations, and preliminary designs for some gadget that Bond recognized from _Doctor Who_ were strewn across every surface, and atop them sat scattered a variety of pens, a set of screwdrivers, a disassembled revolver, two circular saws, and a tiny box with radioactive labels on all sides.

Bond gingerly lowered himself into Q’s seat.  Q liked to take a hands-on approach: the first thing Q would do would be to check the footage himself.

Q would have been able to trace the footage back to its origin.  Bond had neither the time nor the expertise for something like that, at least not from what he’d seen.  What he needed was action and fast.  To that end, Q’s personal account likely wouldn’t be useful.  Instead, Bond logged in as himself.  Q would have had a field day if he knew Bond had his hands on Q’s darling piece of tech, the computer that he’d built from scratch, but Bond thought about desperate times and all that.

As soon as he logged in, the footage began to play without any prompting whatsoever.  Bond muted it immediately and sat back.  Interesting.  He hadn’t seen how the footage manifested itself.  He’d downloaded nothing, and yet as soon as he was logged in as himself, it began to play.

After a moment’s thought, Bond stepped to the door of Q’s office and peeked out.  There were no visible changes to the situation on the floor.  Bond looked about, hoping to catch Moneypenny’s eye.

For his troubles, he landed R.  “Find anything?” she asked, taking a sip of tea that smelled like wet dirt.He considered throttling her for her nonchalance and decided that, at least for the moment, she was of more use alive.

“Get Moneypenny,” he ordered.  She took a step back.  “Now,” he added.

“I don’t know who that is,” she said.She sounded terrified.

Bond breathed out pointed.  While she scurried away to do as he asked, Bond ran through the possibilities.  If there was just the _slightest_ possibility, then there was a whole new set of options—

“Tell me you’ve got something,” Moneypenny said.  Bond looked around.  No one but  R appeared to be paying attention to them, and she didn’t matter for the moment.  He grabbed Moneypenny’s arm and pulled her into Q’s office, shutting the door behind them.

“You said 004 called you,” Bond said, rounding on Moneypenny.

She straightened herself out.  “That’s right.”

“What did she say?”

She looked at him as if he were stupid.  “That she’d gotten this footage.  Bond, what are you—”

“Why would she have it?” Bond demanded.  Moneypenny opened her mouth and shut it.  “It’s a targeted message.   _You know who you are_.”

“They must have sent a mass message,” Moneypenny reasoned.

Bond resisted the urge to hit something.  “No,” he seethed, “you didn’t get it yourself, so it couldn’t have been.  They sent it to several people, but it was _still targeted_.  They know who they’re looking for.  Look,” he said, pointing at Q’s computer.  “That appeared the moment I logged in.”

“It just started playing?” Moneypenny asked.  Bond grunted an agreement.  “She said it had been something like this, just like a virus,” she said, “playing without prompting.  But of course you got it.”

“Log in as yourself,” Bond said.

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Moneypenny’s fingers were already moving across the keyboard.  She input her password and waited.

“No footage,” Bond said.

“What does that mean?”

Bond’s brain processed as he spoke.  “It means,” he said, “that we don’t need to know where this message came from, only who all it got sent to.”

“ _You know who you are_ ,” Moneypenny said.  “You just said that they know who they’re targeting, but now you’re saying the opposite?”

“I think they know enough,” Bond said.  “The footage came to two double-0 agents at the very least.”

“I sent the file 004 gave me to everyone working the floor.  As far as I know, none of them had it before I shared it.  And anyone with ears in high places in MI6 knows that Q’s dating a double-0,” Moneypenny finished.  “You think they managed to get access to the most restricted of files, yet they don’t know which one they’re looking for.”

“No, they know exactly which of us they’re looking for, they just don’t know our numbers.”

“Bond, that doesn’t make sense and you know it.  The double-0 section is kept in the dark for a reason.  Anyone who's gotten this far has to know who they're looking for.”

Bond paused, then continued, “I still think Q’s a shot in the dark.  Kidnapping him is a sure way to get everyone’s attention,” Bond reasoned.  “At the very least, one of us would take notice.  Word would spread.”

“Whichever double-0 they’re looking for would have incentive in all scenarios.  Either they go to the rendezvous point willingly, or they face the wrath of Q’s significant other, not to mention the entirety of MI6,” Moneypenny said.

“Start with 0014 and work backwards,” Bond said, already dialing.  “It’s not me they’re looking for, I’m sure of it, so try everyone.  Whoever it is might already be there, but anyone in deep cover likely won’t have seen this yet.”

“Shouldn’t we—”

“By our reckoning, whoever these bastards are managed to get at least some information on every double-0 without leaving a shred of evidence that we know of.  Who out there do you trust?”  Bond typed furiously, logging himself back in.  He ran through a couple of programs Moneypenny didn’t recognize, and profiles, mission parameters, contact information, and time zones for every current double-0 appeared on the screen.  “Q taught me,” Bond said laconically when she caught his eye.

Moneypenny took a deep breath and began dialing.

 


	5. Slater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q faces down his kidnappers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to mistflyer1102 for the beta-work!

Q coughed into the floor.The man who had attacked him some time ago, a tall caucasian in a ski mask, pressed his skull into the concrete.

“There,” the man cooed.  The false concern churned Q’s stomach.  “There, there.  Get your bearings, now.  Can’t have you going down just yet, no.”

Q’s body all but screamed in agony.  Q had never very good when it came to anatomy, but he thought that he had several broken bones, most of them ribs.  His stomach felt deflated, and one side hurt whenever he tried to take a breath.  The attacker’s hand ran down one side of Q’s face where it met the floor in a sick parody of affection.

“There,” he said.  “Such a shame.  You’d better hope he comes soon.  The boys’ll be hungry.”

The way he said it made Q think that there was something more sinister than hunger on the menu.

“He’ll kill you all,” Q muttered.  His retort earned him a sharp kick to his side.  His ribs screamed as his attacker lifted him and pressed against the wall.  There was a rather pathetic screech, and Q realized belatedly that he was the one who had issued it.

“Now listen here,” the man said, slapping his face.  “I’m in charge now, darling, you understand?  No mouthing off.”  He slapped Q’s other cheek for good measure.  “Understand?”

The door to the room shrieked again, and a person in a dark green suit stepped in.  Q couldn’t make out much, given that his glasses had been taken and his eyes were swollen with little cuts, but he could see that garish colour.

“Give him back his spectacles.”

Q’s attacker lowered him to the floor.  After a moment, he shoved Q’s glasses back onto his face.  The green blob of a suit sharpened to reality as Q blinked into focus.

Someone else might have called her beautiful.  She certainly had an easy elegance to her.  Stark white hair was swept up into an elaborate up-do of swirls and curls that had no place off of the set of a sci-fi movie.  Her face was powdered to match.  Dark-framed glasses bridged dark eyes.  Painted red lips stood out on her face like a bloody gash.  When she smiled, her pale cheeks and red lips made her teeth look yellow.  The man who beat Q pulled one of the chairs from the table in the room and the woman sat down, folding her hands across one green-clad knee.  She wore bright, bright red gloves, and the leather crinkled as she curled her fingers over one another.

Roughly, Q was hauled to his feet and dumped into the other chair, across the table from the green-suited, red-gloved, pale-faced menace.

“Hello,” she said.  “My name is Annika Slater.  I trust you know my name, if not my face.”  She clapped her hands together, leather slapping leather.“We’re going to have such fun, you and I.”

Q did know Annika Slater’s name, though it took him a moment to remember why: R had shown him Slater’s file when they first met in the midst of the Bahrain fiasco.  He took a breath and recalled as much as he could.

 

_Name: Annika Slater._

_DOB: 01-11-1950_

_POB: Bratislava, Slovakia (prev. Czechoslovakia)_

_Occupation: Arms Dealer_

_Known Affiliates: Valentina Ivanova, Nika Musiał, Viktor Bout, Elvan Ciernik, Alexander Solonik, Leonid Minin, Cevahir Blažek, Ludwig Fainberg, Duygu Kovak…_

 

Q mentally cross-checked Annika Slater with known enemies of MI6, but he soon got lost in the affiliates.  The list went on and on.  It told Q that, for an arms dealer, Annika Slater was unusually well connected.

“Hello, Ms. Slater,” he said, sensing the silence was growing long.

“So you do know me,” Slater replied.  The red gash of a mouth contorted into a boat shape that was likely meant to be a smile.  “I thought he might have told you about me.”

Q blinked once, then twice, certain that he’d heard “he” and not “she”.“Come again?”

The boat mouth flipped upside down.  “Surely they did not hit you so hard.”  Slater thought for a moment, and one eyebrow rose.  “Oh, but you are good, aren’t you.  I was not sure if you would be like him or not, such a big gap between you two.  You are good, yes.  Perhaps you mean to protect him.  Oh, no.  We don’t want anything from you.  We’re not going to ask you to talk, or any such nonsense.  No need to be defensive.”  She reached across the table as if to touch him but stopped short.  “You see,” she said, “you’ve fallen in with a dangerous lot.”  Q glanced around the room, and Slater laughed.  “No, no.  Not us.  We’re here to help you.”  

“You’ve a funny way of showing it,” Q said.

The masked man approached Q with a raised fist, and Q shrunk back.  Slater merely straightened herself out and raised a hand.  The man fell back.  “The violence was for show,” Slater said dismissively, “such that he knows we are, as they say, serious contenders, yes?  No significant harm done.  You will be mended after we speak.”

Q sensed something strange afoot.  He glanced between Slater and the masked man.  Though possible, it didn’t seem probable that they didn’t know who he was, and yet… They were treating him as if he were a civilian.  At the very least, as if he were far less involved in matters than he thought himself to be.

“So,” he said slowly.  Navigating social situations had never been his forte, but now, when violence was a serious threat, he scrambled to figure out how to play his hand of cards without knowing what, precisely, he had to work with.  To make matters worse, the room spun very slowly counterclockwise and clockwise by turns and every breath he took produced a sharp, shooting pain that reached all of the way down his left leg.  “I’ve fallen in with a dangerous lot.”

“Quite right,” Slater said.  Her teeth glinted at him, and when she opened her mouth she smelled aggressively of mint.  Up close, Q pegged her as a smoker.  “Such a shame.  You’re such a good boy,” she said, scrunching up her face.  “You don’t deserve such a rotten lot in life.”

“It’s not all bad,” Q said.  He had no idea what sort of lot she meant, but he hoped to get a clue soon.

“Ah, of course not, of course not,” she said, patting the table.  “Nothing is all bad.  But nothing is all good, either.  Shakespeare, yes?  ‘Nothing is either good or bad, but thinking makes it so’?”  She shook her head.  “All of these shades of gray.  You and I, we live in the gray, just like everyone, yes.  But some men,” she said, tapping now, “some men are so close to the black as to be indistinguishable from it.”  She ceased to tap and gazed at him over the tops of her glasses.

“And you suggest that I’m affiliated with such a person,” Q concluded.  Bond certainly fit the bill, at least on the surface, though Q didn’t see him that way.  In fact, he bristled under the notion.  Bond killed, he lied, and he stole, but not from Q.  Never from Q.  Bond would always come for Q.  In fact, Q cheered himself, he was likely on his way now.  Just as he told the masked man, Bond would kill them all.  Q, normally not a fan of bloodshed, supported the idea.Still, Q had to wonder: when, exactly had Bond managed to piss off Annika Slater?So far as Q knew, Bond had never been a part of an operation that involved her.Bond had helped mop of Bahrain, but by that point Slater had been long gone.

“Indeed,” Slater said.  “Perhaps even you, for all of your marked intelligence, fail to see the truth behind him and his words.”  Her glasses glinted as she shifted.  “Or, perhaps, you choose not to see.”

Q felt cold and furious and confused, to say nothing of an entire pantheon of other emotions, but he held them all back.  “What do I choose not to see?” he asked.

“That the bonds of kinship are not so strong as they once were,” Slater said.  “Once, they could be trusted.  You could rely on them, yes.”  She rubbed her left wrist absently.  “But now, there is no trust.  You must doubt, you must seek.  He has lied to you, you know?  He has broken your trust.”

“I don’t understand,” Q said, and it was true.  The bonds of kinship?  Q had no living family, at least not blood relations.There was no “kin”.

“No?  Surely you have suspected,” she said, and Q had the feeling that they were having very different conversations.  “But, again, perhaps not.  A good boy, but a naive one.”  Slater sat back, folding her hands over her stomach.  “A man who lies, who sleeps around like a common whore, who murders?  You expect that man not to stab you in the back?  Not to abandon you?”

“He wouldn’t,” Q blurted, and he realized immediately that he shouldn’t have done so.  Though Bond had never gotten around to teaching Q about it, even he knew that one shouldn’t give any information to one’s captors.  Q’s thoughts turned to Bond, and, he fought the rising bile in his throat.  Bond wouldn’t.  He would never.

“Ah, but wouldn’t he?” Slater asked.  “Would he not lie, leave you if it suited his interests?  He has left others before, you know.  I’m sure he had such pretty excuses.  You watch him during his little escapades, don’t you?  ‘For Queen and Country’, yes, of course.  Because you care, and because you are the ever so good leader of our dear Q Branch,” she said, enunciating.  “But does he not disappear?  Does he not give you worry, and fear?  Has he earned your trust so completely that you think he does not go behind your back like he does everyone else?”  She leaned forward and breathed, “The man is a monster.”

Q remained silent.  Seven breaths in, seven breaths out.  He thought about Bond disappearing after they had fought over Q’s training.  Though he and Bond did not live together, they spent more nights together than not.  Bond had not returned that night.  Where had he gone?

“No,” Q said.  Slater frowned.  “No,” he said more forcefully, trying to infuse the word with as much finality as he could muster.

“We shall see,” she said primly.  “You see, when we filmed you, and I do apologize for that—my boys are thirsty for action—but when we filmed you we sent it out.  Not only to him, but to those who share his position,” Slater said.  She stood, and Q craned his neck to see her.  “Word spreads faster that way.”

She came around the table and pinched Q’s cheek with her right hand as if she were his grandmother.  “We asked to meet with him to negotiate for you, you see.  If he comes, you are right, and he is only half a monster, for a man who does monstrous things and non-monstrous things is still part monster.  But if he doesn’t,” she warned, “you must consider your loyalties, you see?”  She turned to leave.  “There is time yet.  For your sake, I hope he cares for you as much as you care for him!”

Q made to stand to follow her, but the masked man was back, holding Q’s left shoulder in a vice-like grip.  Slater left, and a woman in a white haïk entered holding a white box.

“I didn’t muss him up too bad, be sure to tell _Pane_ , yes?It’s not so bad as it looks.”  Q, who knew just how bad he felt, wondered how it could possible look worse as the the woman who had just arrived failed to respond.  Q’s attacker let out a breathy sigh of exasperation and demanded, “Tu comprends, pute?”

The woman nodded quickly and shrunk away as the masked man approached.  “Lock up when you’re done,” he said thrusting a set of keys on her.  “Verrouille la porte quand tu pars.Don’t cock it up.”

The masked man left, and Q was alone with the silent veiled woman and her box of unlabeled supplies.

 


	6. Mythos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The double-0 division has secrets, and James Bond is the least of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to mistflyer1102 for the lovely beta-work!

As an unspoken rule, those who achieved double-0 rank rarely associated with regular field agents outside of mandated operations.  Members of the double-0 section were ghosts.  They had their own medical, support, and janitorial staff, all of whom were kept away from the rest of MI6.  Aside from division heads and, of course, M, no one knew where the double-0 offices were or what the agents looked like, and most importantly, no one knew their actual missions.  Their profiles and files were classified and nearly everything they did was buried under miles of red tape and redacted notices.  Their existence was known but kept quiet, and MI6 ran the better for it.  

As such, Moneypenny had never spoken with 007 before Istanbul; in fact, she’d never seen his face.  She’d been tasked with helping him retrieve stolen data, nothing more.  That sent up red flags in her mind right away: agents were rarely sent as on-site support unless something else had to be accomplished.  It was the first clue that she wasn’t working with a regular field agent.  The second had been the presence of M and Tanner in her ear all throughout: they only covered the most important of operations.  The last, of course, had been the order to shoot.  Few MI6 missions required killing, and any that carried so much of a risk of homicide was given to a double-0.  After Moneypenny pulled the trigger, she had realized: she hadn’t just been working beside an agent, she’d been working with one of MI6’s infamous ghosts.  

Her first instinct was to get angry: Zusa Sherman, the one who’d given Moneypenny her mission parameters, had said nothing to warn her about what might happen.  Looking back, Moneypenny realized that Sherman couldn’t have known, that only division heads would have realized just who James Bond was and what a mission with him would mean, but in the moment, Moneypenny had very nearly stormed Sherman’s office and demanded to know what she’d done to be put in the line of fire in such an extraordinary fashion.

When the anger subsided, though, she was scared.  She hadn’t just shot an agent, though that thought was bad enough: she’d shot a double-0.  According to the rumors, double-0 agents were notoriously unstable, generally borderline psychopathic in nature, and extremely loyal to one another.  The stories said they were ex-mercs, or ex-armed forces, but all of them were killers, and none of them had a shred of human compassion or empathy.  Those who couldn’t handle the lethal aspect of the programme after promotion were given steady, uneventful careers in MI6’s more rural outposts and ordered not to breathe a word, not that it was necessary.  That was how MI6 kept their most dangerous section under wraps, or so it was said.

There was a story that epitomized the double-0 section and kept anyone from digging too deeply.  There had been one ex-002 who’d lasted only two months before he was given work as one of M’s secretaries’ secretaries.  Unfortunately, someone cornered him after learning of his short stint as a double-0 and pressed for information.  According to the perpetually unreliable eyewitnesses, the poor man had all but caved in on himself.  He collapsed on the floor and kept apologizing and crying for people who weren’t there until a psychiatric team came to get him.  He was moved to a different office after he stabilized and no one, so far as the story went, ever asked him about it again—and not because they weren’t curious.  Apparently, anonymous threats went out to everyone in the new office not to ask the man anything.  Popular belief identified the senders as current double-0s looking out for one of their own.  Terrified, everyone kept their mouths shut.

That was the official story, anyway.  The old M had offered to give her the truth once, a truth that resided in a file that only M could grant access to, but Moneypenny chose not to know at the time.  She’d been curious, just like everyone else, but she hadn’t trusted the old M not to give her some variation of the same.  That was during their first meeting, before Bond had returned, before M had even penned his obituary.  Moneypenny had requested a transfer from fieldwork.  She’d gone first to Sherman, who directed her to Dolly Appleton, second in command to Megan Langley, head of Clandestine Services, who led her finally to M.  Before that moment, Moneypenny had never so much as laid eyes on the woman, nor had she ever dreamed of doing so.  The closest Moneypenny had thought she would ever get to her was through that comm line in Istanbul.  M was as much of an enigma to the majority of MI6 as any double-0.  Moreover, she hadn’t been moved by Moneypenny’s request for a transfer.

_“You blame yourself_ ,” M had said.  There was no question attached to it, just a simple statement.  The way she’d said it made it sound like the most moronic thing she’d ever heard spoken aloud.

_“Yes,”_ Moneypenny had said, and it had been the truth.

_“Nonsense_ ,” M had shot back.   _“Young people always think they’re responsible for everything.  You think the world revolves around you.  God save us from your narcissism.  What would have happened if you hadn’t taken that shot?”_

_“Bond would still be with us.”_

_“Would he?”_  M’s question had cut Moneypenny as easily as any knife.  Moneypenny had been stunned.   _“You assume what he did, the fool: that he could fight alone.  My predecessor had a belief: that a single man in the right place at the right time could shape the world.  And he was right, to an extent, but to make it happen, the person has to be capable, not only physically but mentally.  He has to be of sound mind and body.  He has to be the right man for the job, otherwise he’s just a lunatic with a gun in a war zone.”_

Moneypenny hadn’t known what to say.  She still didn’t, not really.  If she’d been given the chance now, she might have asked: how could she hold that belief to be true and still embrace the double-0 section?  Wasn’t MI6 all about individuals infiltrating, putting themselves in the right place at the right time?  Wasn’t that belief the point of it all?

Instead, Moneypenny had said, _“Commander Bond wasn’t a regular field agent, was he?”_

M had sat back in her chair, appraising, judging.  Moneypenny had sat a little straighter under her gaze and wondered what the older woman saw.

_“What makes you say that?”_  Moneypenny hesitated, and M pounced. _“Well, out with it now.  No use bringing something up if you don’t intend to speak your mind.”_

_“His demeanor,”_ Moneypenny had said.   _“His attitude.  He didn’t just follow, he stalked Patrice across the city.  When he started shooting rather than asking questions, I thought it was strange, but I followed his lead because that was my directive.  I shot to injure—but Bond shot to kill.  When he went up on the roof on that motorbike—no sane person would do that.  Too many risks, too much attention.  MI6 can’t cover up damage like that.”_ M had been very, very quiet.   _“When you told me to take the shot, to shoot to kill… That’s no standard mission.  Not for someone like me.”_

M had looked her straight in the eye and said, _“That had been Bond’s job, yes.  You are, in fact, correct.  Commander James Bond, otherwise known as 007, is indeed a double-0.”_

Moneypenny had fought to keep her voice steady as she asked, _“Is?”_

M’s smile had been thin, almost malicious.   _“It takes a lot to kill someone like him.  I’ve no doubt he’ll return within the week.”_

_“I saw him fall.”_  Moneypenny remembered gripping the arms of the old M’s chairs as if her life depended on it.  She remembered Istanbul: it had been ingrained on her mind as if seared there by divine fire.  Bond had fallen, and Moneypenny could still see it: he dropped like a stone, limbs entirely limp, and the mercenary, Patrice, had looked right at her.  No doubt he’d seen her as his saving grace.   _“I shot him.”_

_“And if you managed to kill him, congratulations, he was our finest,_ ” M said.   _“No doubt you’re worried about retribution on the part of other double-0s and whatnot.  There’s nothing to worry about.  They are a loyal bunch, but many of the myths you’re likely thinking of we create for them.  At any rate, double-0 agents don’t have particularly long lifespans.”_  Moneypenny’s mouth had run dry.   _“However, I sincerely doubt that he’s dead.  If so, we need a new double-0.  It’s awfully difficult finding people like that nowadays, particularly stable ones._ ”

Moneypenny had slid her chair away.   _“All I want is a transfer, ma’am.  Out of fieldwork.”_

M had looked at her long and hard before sitting back.   _“You’d already be halfway.”_

Moneypenny hadn’t needed to ask what that meant.   _“Transfer me, please, ma’am.”_  She hadn’t been entirely successful at keeping the tremble out of her voice.

M had acquiesced.  She made Moneypenny Mallory’s secretary, and all of her things had been moved within the hour.  Her ID no longer carried a 12-digit code; instead, she was 002 0012.  She had stared at the numbers until her vision blurred.  Somehow, Moneypenny had been shifted from a top agent to nearly top brass, even if she was just a secretary.  The promotion, however, did nothing to steady her nerves.  It wasn’t until word reached her ears that Bond had returned at long last that she began to sleep without dreaming of bodies falling off of moving trains.

Then, of course, the old M had died, and Moneypenny dreamed of different horrors.  Moneypenny had been promoted since then, all of the way up to 001 002, and she’d learned the truth about the ex-002, amongst other things.  The horror was too great, and she spoke of it to no one.  All around her, though, the false myth persisted, twisting with each passing year.That was how double-0 agents existed in the minds of MI6: through myth.  Ubiquitous and amorphous, the stories of the double-0 section could hardly be defined as anything else.  If nothing else, it was safer that way.

As Moneypenny stood in Q’s office, reviewing the mission parameters of one of the most dangerous men in the Queen’s service, she remembered M and her predecessor’s beliefs, 002 and Istanbul, and found herself wondering when all of it had stopped bothering her.  When she’d been promoted, she’d looked at the double-0 files with a mixture of amazement and revulsion.  Now, as she gazed over the information of the agent known as 0014, the endless list of elsewhere-redacted missions, operations, aliases, and kills, Moneypenny felt a distinct lack of emotional response.  She felt nothing, no regret, no anguish, not over anything.  What happened to 002 was frightening, and it still bothered her, but little else did.

She remembered M’s unspoken offer and began dialing.  She’d made the right call, turning it down.  For all that the double-0 lifestyle failed to bother her, she also wasn’t the one living it.  It wouldn’t have been right for her.  She said so to herself as the phone rang.

The man she called, 0014, was ex-merc, and he more closely resembled a bear than a man.  He was known to the rest of MI6 through but a single myth: though no one who spoke of it knew which double-0 had done it, of course, but according to the rumors, one of the new double-0s had earned a kill by literally tearing a man in half.  According to the story, the victim hadn’t even been a target; he had simply gotten in the way.

Regrettably, Moneypenny knew the story to be true in its entirety: the second of 0014’s kills had been a civilian who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.There had been debate as to whether or not the kill ought to be counted amongst his necessary two, but 0014 had turned around and killed the rest of his targets without remorse, and it was decided that fifteen kills outweighed one civilian death.

She heard two more rings and was about to give up and try again, but she suddenly heard: “Hello?”  His voice was gruff and deep, but not short.

“It’s cloudy over Kensington Gardens,” Moneypenny said.

“But Westminster shines despite the rain,” 0014 replied.  His voice sang.Had Moneypenny not known better, she would have guessed that he was a handsome man in his late twenties with an Oxford education and a wry smile.“Has there been a change in my mission parameters?”

“No,” Moneypenny said.  “I don’t believe we’ve met, I’m M’s second.  Q has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom by an unknown party.  I need you to log into your computer and see if you recognize the kidnappers.”

“They don’t say?” 0014 asked.  Moneypenny could hear typing in the background.  A glance at the screen told her that 0014 was playing the Waiting Game, as they called it.  She didn’t read any further; she didn’t want to know.  Her fieldwork days were over and done with.  All that mattered was that he had ready access to a secure laptop.

“No,” Moneypenny said.  “We think they don’t know who they’re looking for.”

“Not very bright kidnappers,” 0014 said.  Moneypenny heard the footage start up on the other end of the line.  So, Bond was right: every double-0 had gotten it.  “Christ.  No, I don’t know these gents.  I don’t suppose Boss wants me to wrap up here and come back, bash some skulls in, yeah?”

“Yeah, no,” Moneypenny said, wincing.  “Maintain your post.”

“Yes, ma’am,” 0014 said.  He paused, then said, “It’s not my place, yeah, but is Seven with you?”

Moneypenny looked across the room at Bond.  He was pacing as he spoke with 001, talking quickly in hushed tones.  “Not at the moment,” Moneypenny said.

She thought 0014 could taste the lie through the phone because he said, “I doubt that, ma’am.  Seven and Q are a right match, they are.  Tell Seven, when you see him, that if anything comes up, I’ll split some skulls for him.  I owe him as much.  Tell him I still remember Bahrain.”

Moneypenny couldn’t restrain the swallow.  “Right,” she said, feeling distinctly like all of the air had left the room.  “I’ll tell him.”

She hung up quickly and looked at the screen.  Moneypenny didn’t need to tell Bond that 0014 hadn’t known the kidnappers: she was sure he had one of his ears trained on the conversation.  Moneypenny said a prayer and dialed 0013.

 


	7. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond gets a lead, but with only three hours remaining, R gets news that will change the nature of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day early, but I am busy. This chapter is short and ends on something of a cliffhanger; it's a necessary evil, but I apologize in advance nonetheless. Please enjoy!

_Three hours remain_

 

R stared at the door to Q’s office and wished she had a pair of  X -ray glasses or whatever Q Division was cooking up these days so that she could see what was going on inside.  007 and the woman known as Moneypenny had shut themselves in there a little under half an hour ago, and no one had yet come out.  R knew that 007 was a terrible flirt while he was on missions, or so the rumors went, but to start shagging someone else while Q was in trouble?  R didn’t like that thought.  She didn’t like it one bit.

Still, she hadn’t yet decided just what she meant to do about it when someone tapped her on the shoulder.  She wheeled around, nearly spilling her now-cold tea.

“So sorry,” she said, setting the mug where it couldn’t hurt anyone.

“Quite all right.  My day couldn’t get worse if you soaked my shirt with it.”

R swallowed.  She was face to face with M.

“Sorry, sir,” she amended, stuttering.

“Now’s not the time for formalities.  I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced, though this isn’t the time for that, either.  I take it Bond and Moneypenny are in there?” he asked, gesturing at the office.R filed that tidbit away for later: not only did 007 ask for Moneypenny by name, but M knew her as well.She must have been important.R frowned.007 typically didn’t shag anyone of importance within MI6, so that option was off of the table—but why didn’t R know who this Moneypenny was?

“Yes, sir,” R replied slowly.

“Do you know what they’re up to?”

Now here was a dilemma.If R’s new hunch was correct, 007 had figured something out—something that would help Q.Either that or something particularly obscene was going on, and R didn’t want to think about that.The catch was simple: 007 didn’t trust anyone out on the floor.Did that lack of trust extend to M?007 trusted Moneypenny, or he seemed to.R frowned.Since when did R trust 007’s judgement in the first place?

“If you don’t know the answer, just say so, but don’t stand there twiddling your thumbs,” M snapped, and R came back to reality.

“No, sir,” she said, making a decision.

“No, you don’t know, or…?”

R coloured.“I don’t know, sir,” she said, and it was the truth. M glared at her, and her flush deepened .  She said, “Right.  I’ll find out right away, sir.”

R turned to slowly walk to the office.  What was she supposed to do?She had the feeling that everyone around here could read her like an open book.Spies.She snorted.She’d somehow gotten involved in the absolute wrong profession, but now she had to make it work.007 had holed himself and Miss Moneypenny up in Q’s office for a reason.R needed to find out why, and surreptitiously.If she needed to lie to M to help them bring Q back, then so be it, but she needed to prepare herself for something like that.

R halted close to the office and sighed.Days like today she really hated her job.

Only her hesitation upon reaching the door stopped her from being hit in the face when it swung open.  She leapt back in surprise, and that in turn stopped her from being trampled by 007.  The agent didn’t stop for anyone as he made for Q Division’s main exit.

“Where?” M asked sharply after him.  007 slid around a corner and disappeared.  “Bond!”  The agent was gone, and Q Division erupted into chaos.  “Damn,” R heard M say.  “I want everyone below Second Clearance out!  Everyone else, get agents on his tail. I want everyone we have available following Bond, now!”

The Division was anarchy.  The politicians were yelling at M and between themselves that this was precisely the sort of thing that had gotten MI6 into so much trouble in the past, sending in lone men, even with tails.  Accusations flew: about the double-0 section, about the old M, the works.  R’s face paled at the mention of the former; more than a half of the room didn’t know anything about the double-0 section beyond its existence, and it was a matter of national importance that it stay that way.There were staff complaining that they ought not be kicked out, others trying to force them out—it was not a pretty sight.R had a feeling le Carré had been on to something when he termed MI6 “the Circus”, and not just in the geographical sense.

“Sir, are you sure that’s a good idea?” An incredibly tall woman armed with a tablet had sidled over next to M and spoke over the shouts.  R didn’t know her name, but she recognized her as one of Q Division.R believed that she might have been Q’s second—she had the feeling that Q had briefly glossed over their introductions at some point—but R didn’t remember and frankly couldn’t find it important just then.Her attention was fixed on a pair of women lurking near Q’s office: the one was short and rather homely, and the other was dressed to kill.  They were glancing at the partially adjacent door and speaking too quietly for R to hear, even as close as she was.The sharp-dressed woman caught R’s eye, and R shuddered.She had the distinct feeling that she was looking at an uncaged panther that was deciding whether or not it was hungry enough to pounce.Dimly, R heard in the background the sound of the tall woman continuing her report to M: “They told him to come alone, and Bond has a reputation to act without regards to any teams sent in after him.We may be sending in men as collateral damage rather than backup.”

M didn’t grace her with a direct answer, and the sharp-dressed woman was still boring holes in R’s skull with her eyes.  M was saying, “I want both of our standby field teams—Dvorak and Lee, any of your people, whoever is on the ground—” 

The sharp-dressed woman’s eyes snapped to M as he spoke, but R could stare at her no longer, for she was jerked out of the spectacle unfolding all around her by the vibrating of her phone.  There was one, two, three, four, _five_ — Wait, no, six, seven, eight, nine, _ten_ —

R felt the world spinning as she pulled the device out of her pocket.  This wasn’t her personal cellphone, no, this was her company phone, set up for one purpose and one purpose only.  She glanced at the screen, and the blood rushed from her brain.  She turned her back on the pair of women and opened her mouth to call for M, but her stomach’s need to be heard was much stronger than her vocal chords’.She doubled over, grabbing her sides, and vomit spewed across the floor of Q Division.

 


	8. Vibrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R is terrified, and she's got every right to be. The old M may have died with her secrets, but they're cropping up, one by one. With Bond and Q out of the picture, it's up to Moneypenny to unravel it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for looking over this!

Moneypenny stood at the door to Q’s office and surveyed the chaos.

Mallory looked ready to blow a blood vessel.  Boffins scrambled over each other as each attempted to track Bond, not that any of them thought it would work: if the man’s tracker was still in, he didn’t deserve to maintain double-0 status.  Q probably knew of another one—in fact, Moneypenny was sure that he did; she and Q had regular lunch dates, and he’d told her that he’d forced Bond to have at least one that only Q knew of, just for his own peace of mind—but the boffins didn’t, so it was moot point.  Mallory’s politicians were scrambling, too: everyone tried to shout over everyone else.  There were calls for the removal of “that man”—referencing, of course, Bond—alongside thinly veiled accusations that Mallory himself had enabled this mess; someone was criticizing “the idiot brunette” who had thrown up on the job, and still others were suggesting that the Prime Minister be notified.

Moneypenny decided that the best course of action was to help R, who hadn’t moved from her near-crouch in front of the pool of vomit.The woman’s face was paler than death, and she appeared appalled to see what had once been the contents of her stomach splattered on the once-clean Q Division floors.

“Come on, then,” Moneypenny said, pulling R away.  “Let the cleaning crew handle that.”

“We need to stop everything,” R said weakly.  Moneypenny ignored her in favor of pulling her into Q’s office.  Moneypenny noted the two standing by the door: Lee and Ponsonby.Wonderful.She’d deal with that later.“Please,” R was saying, “I need to talk to someone.”

“I know you do,” Moneypenny said, settling R into Q’s couch.  She snagged a half-full trashcan from under Q’s desk and placed it at her feet.Moneypenny hoped Q wasn’t the type to change his mind after throwing things out.R taken care of, there wasn’t much more Moneypenny could do, not until she was sure if the woman was sick or not.Perhaps she should go find Longwood?He’d be able to tell if R was truly ill, and Moneypenny knew that he had to be close at hand.All available division heads were around at times like these, and the only time Longwood was unavailable was when a double-0 came back from the field injured.He saw to their wounds personally, alongside his select 2-Z clearance staff.As it happened, every double-0 except Trevelyan and Bond were on active duty, and not a one had returned in the past few weeks.He was sure to be around.

In the background of her thoughts, Moneypenny heard R saying, “No, I need to speak with M.It’s important, it’s important, I don’t know what to do…”

“He rather his has hands full at the moment,” Moneypenny said absently.Perhaps it was the flu?Moneypenny had an immune system that could match wrought iron for endurance; she had little experience with physical illness.“I’m sure it can wait until your stomach settles.”

R slammed her hands against the trashcan and brought Moneypenny into the moment.  “This isn’t about that!” R snarled.  Moneypenny tilted her head.She hadn’t expected such a violent outcry from the hitherto-docile consultant.“This is serious, I need to talk to M!”

“As I said, M is very busy—”

“Listen, please listen,” R pleaded.Moneypenny had heard people beg whilst angry, but she’d never seen it done quite like this.  “We’re all going to die.”

Moneypenny let that sit for a moment.  “Excuse me?”

R breathed in, then said, “That was rather dramatic.  I’m sorry.  I’m _afraid_ we’re all going to die.  That’s closer to the truth.”

Moneypenny patted R’s knee.  “Q’s kidnappers aren’t going to kill anyone,” she said.So R wasn’t sick after all, not really; she was just nervous.That was okay.Moneypenny could handle nervous.

The sound that issued from R’s throat bordered on a scream.  “ _It’s not about Q!_ ” she shouted.

“Then what is it about?” Moneypenny demanded.

“I need to speak with Mallory.”

“Not until you start making sense.  What the hell is the matter with you?”

R bit both of her lips simultaneously, and Moneypenny sat back on her heels.  She knew very little about R, all things considered.  She knew that R taught at Cambridge, though just how R did so whilst maintaining such a childish demeanor Moneypenny had no idea.  Perhaps R didn’t hold up well under stress?Moneypenny had long ago started to regret her decision to help the other woman.

“What’s your clearance level?” R asked finally.

“Excuse me?” Moneypenny repeated, unsure if she’d heard right.

“Clearance level,” R said, fingering the trashcan.  Sheepishly, she added, “I don’t know if I can tell you.”

“I’m directly under M,” Moneypenny said finally.Something serious was bothering R, Moneypenny could see that now.If she was worried about clearance, Moneypenny knew just the solution.  “001 002.  Here’s my badge.”

“You’re directly under M?” R asked.  “I thought Tanner—”

“Everyone thinks that,” Moneypenny said firmly, “and we want to keep it that way, at least for now.”  R was silent.  Moneypenny judged that a sort of victory, if only because she hadn’t encouraged yet another outburst.“What’s happened?” Moneypenny asked, as gently as she could.

“The old M brought me in because of my expertise with nuclear armaments,” R said.The venom had drained from her voice, and she sounded dejected.That tone worried Moneypenny more than anything.  “I was originally just supposed to be a consultant for the Trident Programme, someone who knew their way around nuclear devices, you know, but over time she gave me operatives.  God only knows why she thought that was a good call.  For Christ’s sake, I teach physics, I don’t go around, I don’t know, defusing bombs or whatever the hell it is you people do.  But she did, she put me in charge of people abroad, spies, that sort of thing.”  Moneypenny’s eyebrows were in her hairline.  This was news to her, and nothing was news to Moneypenny, not anymore.“I monitor the activities of all known big time arms dealers, particularly the nuclear dealers, across the world,” R continued, taking shallow breaths.  “Most of them have a pattern, you know.  They don’t do anything interesting, at least not in the eyes of MI6.The cargo’s too risky.  But there are some things we worry about, or that M told me to worry about.”

“And one of those things happened?” Moneypenny asked, her voice crisp.Though she schooled her features to radiate the sort of calm she hoped to impress upon R, the gears in her mind spun out of control.R was listed in the files as a consultant, nothing more.There was nothing about agents, only a note that suggested that the old M, rest her soul, had once considered expanding the Tridgent Programme and that Consultant R was the only candidate to head it.Worry blossomed in Moneypenny’s gut, and she had to work to refrain from wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt.

R nodded slowly, miserable.  “I’ve got a notification system set up to assess risk on a scale of one to five, five being…disastrous.  I’m contacted in all cases, but all of the operatives are MI6, so they have their own way of dealing with low-level risks and I’m usually not involved except to give the go-ahead.  Nothing to worry about.  But I make the calls in anything from a questionable two on up.  I’ve only had to do it once.  It was terrible, and I asked M if I could quit.”  She clutched the trashcan a little closer.  Moneypenny thought she looked like a lost child.  “Just now, my Russian team—they sent me a level five risk—”

Moneypenny jolted to her feet.  She caught the look of terror in R’s eyes and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get M.  We’ll work through this together.  We need to work something out, and fast—”

“No,” R said, “wait.  Please don’t leave, that’s not it.”

Moneypenny stared at R.  “That’s not all?”

“My Russian team sent me a level five risk,” R said, talking into the trashcan, “and my Slovakian team sent me one, too.”

“A level one?” Moneypenny asked sharply.  Her mouth was dry.

R looked up at her.  “Another five.”

No sooner had she said it than Moneypenny heard the distinctive sound of a phone vibrating several times in quick succession.  All of the remaining blood in R’s face rushed away, and she listed to one side.

Moneypenny almost didn’t want to ask, and yet: “What was that?”

“Oh God,” R groaned.  She threw up into the trashcan yet again.  The smell of grass and strong acid filled the room.

Moneypenny knelt down next to R.  “I need to look,” she said.  “Where is it?”

“It was another five,” R sobbed.  One hand shaking, she extracted her phone from her pocket.  It vibrated in her hands.  Moneypenny could see how it worked: one vibration for each threat level.  There was another two, three, four—

“And another five,” R said, looking at the screen.  “That was the Ukrainian team, and before that was the Chinese.”

R sat still, petrified.  Moneypenny held her hand ineffectually.  She had no idea what to say or what to do.None of this was outlined in any protocol in any file that Moneypenny had ever read.R was just supposed to be a consultant.There wasn’t supposed to be more to this story.

“Who else knows?” Moneypenny asked at long last.

“No one,” R said.  Her eyes looked dead, and that listless tone was back.  “Threats like these, they all come through me and end with me.  I’m supposed to report them to everyone else who needs to know.  Oh my God…”

Moneypenny couldn’t let her stop yet.“Who else is to be notified?” Moneypenny asked.“I need to know.”

“The old M told me to talk to her and only to her,” R moaned.Her voice echoed from the confines of the metal can.“From there, barring her direct orders, I was to take the information to Q and someone named Loelia Ponsonby.”

“And after Q and Ponsonby?”

“No one.She didn’t tell me anything else, just that I’d be following her orders after that.The four of us at maximum were to know at that stage, but M’s dead and Q’s missing and I don’t know who Loelia Ponsonby is and I don’t know what to _do_.”

Moneypenny swallowed, her mouth still dry.  “All right,” she said.  “All right.  So no one knows.  These just came through.  There’s still time.  We need to move quickly, all right?  I’m going to get M.  We’re going to work through this.  It’s going to be all right.”

R was sifting through the series of messages she’d received.  “They’re converging,” R said softly.  “Oh my God.  Oh my God.”

Moneypenny turned right back around and kneeled in front of R.  “No, that’s good, that’s good—”  She caught a glimpse of R’s horrified face.  “No, I mean it’s good that we know what they’re doing.  You didn’t mention that.Where are they going, the weapons?”

“It’s not weapons,” R said, “or it’s not just weapons.  It’s the leaders themselves.  These reports, they’re all saying the same thing: each dealer has loaded up enough armaments of various types to knock the Earth out of orbit.  They’re on planes, all coming to the same place.”

“Where, R?” Moneypenny said, struggling to keep her voice from shaking.

R all but hugged the trashcan.  “They’re all flying into Berlin.”

“Thank you.  Stay right here, we’re going to fix this, all right?  I’m going to get M and we’re going to fix this.”  She had just opened the door to the main floor when she stopped herself short.Sweat drenched her palms all at once, and she was sure they were dripping, they were so wet.

“Actually,” Moneypenny said, hardly breathing, “say that again.”  From his position across the floor, she saw Mallory looking around, demanding explanations.Ponsonby and Lee had relocated to the other side of the floor.All three pairs of eyes converged on Moneypenny at once, and she had the feeling that she’d been thrust on stage in the middle of a performance with no lines and no clothes.

“What?” R asked from the confines of the office.

“Repeat what you just said.  Where they’re going.”More people had taken notice of her now.Moneypenny felt her hands shaking and clasped them firmly behind her back.

R did as she was told: “They’re all flying into Berlin.  In Germany.”

“Shit,” Moneypenny said, a little loud.She made eye contact with Mallory and gave a short head thrust, raising her chin.  His expression changed just as quickly, and he marched over to meet her.

“Sir,” Moneypenny said, doing her best not to stutter, curse, scream, or do any of the things she so desperately wanted to do.  “We have a serious problem.”

“Yes, his name is Commander James bloody—”

Moneypenny cut him off.  “Commander James bloody Bond and Q don’t have long to live unless we take care of something else first,” she said, tugging on his arm.She left sweat marks on his sleeve where she grabbed him.  His politicians were starting to gather, as if that weren’t the last thing she needed.  “Please,” she said and wished it didn’t sound so pathetic.

Whatever Mallory saw in her face or heard in her voice, he understood.  “Everyone stay where you are!” he called.  “You keep looking for Bond, but no one leaves this room until I say so.   _Stay where you are_!”Those who were being corralled at the doors all looked his way, but Mallory wasn’t paying attention.Moneypenny dragged him into the office and shut the door behind him, leaning against it with all of her weight until the locks clicked.

Inside, the air still smelled like vomit and tea.  In the time that Moneypenny hadn’t been paying attention, R had gone from mostly put together to leaning over the trashcan and crying uncontrollably.  Mallory looked lost.Moneypenny wasn’t sure she had it in her to make this work.Even so, without further ado, Moneypenny began to explain to Mallory what R had relayed to her not moments prior.

 


	9. Mr. Atom Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan makes his much-awaited appearance, and the Level Five threats heading to Berlin just took on a whole new level of dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the beta work!!!

It boiled down to the fact that the house was on fire and it was not his fault.

Trevelyan had read a very similar line in a book once upon a time and thought it was something he might say.  Now, it was apt.  The house was on fire.  It was not his fault.  Reality plagiarized fiction, at least this once.

Not that anyone back home would believe it.  Whenever “destruction of government property” came up, he was always, without fail, lumped in with Mr. Atom Bomb, otherwise known as James Bond.  Trevelyan was nothing like Bond.

(That was a lie, and everyone knew it.  They were more alike than they were different.After all, where Bond was Mr. Atom Bomb, Trevelyan was Mr. H-Bomb.They argued over which was which, but ultimately, did it really matter when the damage so far outclassed anything anyone else in the service could produce on a regular basis?No one else seemed to think so.)

Still, Trevelyan contested, he didn’t destroy things the way Bond did.  In that regard, Bond was in a class of his own.Bond’s destruction was incidental, accidental, and perpetually phenomenal; Trevelyan’s was more often than not entirely purposeful and, he thought, quite tasteful.

None of those thoughts helped the burning building, which was, as mentioned, entirely not his fault..  Trevelyan scowled at the flames as they stretched their fiery tendrils through the blown-out windows.He thought he could see some of the metal supports melting from the scorching heat, and there were still loud pops as air bubbles within the walls, swelling under the intense heat produced by the blaze, exploded into the open, exposing more combustible material for the fire to build itself into a veritable inferno.The building itself still stood, but its foundations were shifting fast and the load-bearing walls had to be taking a beating.The entire structure would collapse soon, taking everything that yet remained inside with it.

Trevelyan had come to stand before the burning with next to nothing in his hands in the same manner he often ended up in such situations: because of a girl.  She was a pretty thing with lustrous dark hair and such smooth skin.  She was Algerian, and he’d never been more thankful to know conversational Arabic as when he’d seen her.  They’d hit it off, and though she was touchy about sex, he didn’t push it.  Guys who did that were, as the Americans so tactfully put it, fuckers.  He didn’t like fuckers, at least not that type.At any rate, Trevelyan actually liked the girl.She played the harp badly and laughed openly with crooked teeth, and Trevelyan laughed with her.She had a burn on her right hand—a cooking accident, she said, but Trevelyan knew better—and she’d held it up to his face.She told him scars were a sign of beauty.They, she and Trevelyan, were beautiful.Trevelyan got a kick out of her.

Though it was more a nuisance than anything else, it turned out the girl had a brother, and that brother, though he was bumbling and inept by himself, had some friends who knew how to brawl.  Trevelyan had been careful, treading lightly around town and keeping a low profile, but he hadn’t been careful enough to avoid the brother’s attention.  The brother found out that his sister was considering committing lewd acts with someone she’d only just met, and he’d contrived to get his friends together to give Trevelyan a welcoming party, so to speak.

Trevelyan had just finished beating the ever-loving shite out of the brother, who had been foolish enough to show up to Trevelyan’s place early and alone, when Bond and Moneypenny called.  They had been phoning every double-0 agent they could get their hands on to see if anyone had any leads on Q.  Apparently, the boffin had found himself kidnapped by some rather unusual men who didn’t know how to stage a proper kidnapping.Criminals these days; their lack of art and finesse gave the profession a bad name.

Trevelyan, for his part, had never met Q.  He’d known about the hand-off, to be sure; no power changed hands in MI6 without the double-0 section’s knowledge, no matter how mundane.  But Trevelyan went into deep cover just two days before the explosion at MI6 in 2010, and he’d stayed that way for a full year before he was pulled out to help clean up Siberia.  When he came out of there, he dropped his equipment, his report, and his information with one of the boffins and promptly skipped every other meeting he had scheduled to go get smashed in Ireland.  When the new M dragged him back, it was more to demonstrate that he could than anything else.Trevelyan had been given a few odd jobs here and there, but he didn’t like odd jobs, so he gave himself a vacation.  In that way, he ended up in Algiers without so much as catching a glimpse of the new head of Q Division in the two and a half years he’d had to do so.

At any rate, after sending the pretty Algerian girl’s brother scampering off with his tail between his possibly-broken legs, Trevelyan had watched the footage once, then twice to confirm that, though he still couldn’t have picked Q out of a lineup, he knew the kidnappers.

“Annika Slater,” Trevelyan had announced to Bond and Moneypenny.  “I know that place.”

And he told them one of his lesser stories: about a year and a half ago, in the fallout of Siberia, Trevelyan had been given an operation in Berlin as part of a clean-up initiative.With Bond, the fan favorite, worn down to nothing after the long slog, dear old Ponsonby had tagged Trevelyan for the job, and Misra, Dvorak, and Lee, the other heads associated with Ponsonby’s section, had agreed.The basis of the mission was simple.Bond hadn’t been able to flush out all of the Siberian rats before he was pulled out, and there was an abandoned chemicals factory in Berlin where M suspected the escapees were gathering to regroup.  Trevelyan was sent in with three men, one from each of the heads’ divisions, to clear the area and to make sure that the stragglers didn’t breathe any longer than absolutely necessary.

It turned out M was only half right: stragglers were gathering at the Berlin factory, to be sure, but they weren’t regrouping, and they certainly weren’t breathing.  Annika Slater, an international arms dealer with a set of goons to make Stalin proud, had promised the Siberian survivors arms and safe haven, only to butcher everyone who came her way.  She’d had someone dig a pit, and the bodies had been dumped there.Lee’s man had discovered it after taking note of the vultures circling the area.By his count, Slater had done most all of their work for them, though he didn’t have an explanation as to why she’d killed them all.Trevelyan thought she was weeding out the competition, but only she knew what she was after.

M’s orders had been to clear the area, though, so it didn’t matter to Trevelyan that he was killing Slater’s people rather than the Siberian stragglers.  He tore through Slater’s bodyguards and fought his way through the facility by himself after Misra’s agent was shot seven times trying to lead the way.  Though Trevelyan didn’t know it at the time, Lee and Dvorak’s people were ambushed outside around the same time and would bleed out before the day was done.He only found them later, when everything had gone tits-up and it was time to go, and by that time it was too late to do anything other than call the medevac team for two more body bags.For his part of the operation, Trevelyan sustained a nasty burn to the right half of his face, but he still kept moving, determined to complete the objective.

In the end, Slater had escaped with at least two of her men.  That had been Trevelyan’s fault: as he caught up with Slater, he assumed that he was facing a weak woman.  He was entirely unprepared for the reality.  She hit him in the face with her left fist hard enough to send him flying backwards across the space.  It was as if he’d been hit with a steel bar.  He still didn’t know how she’d done it, what with her being substantially shorter than him and about half as massive.It didn’t seem possible.

Slater escaped, and in the absence of any leads Trevelyan was forced to return a failed mission report and three corpses.  Slater didn’t disappear, but she’d retreated behind her allies’ lines, so she was allowed to lay low.  With someone from MI6 monitoring her just in case, Trevelyan had been content to forget all about her until the moment he set eyes on the footage.

“Are you sure?” Bond had asked.

“Absolutely,” Trevelyan had replied.  “I couldn’t forget that place if I tried.Something about the stains on the floor smelled of almonds.Absolutely stunk of it.The voice is her’s, too.It’s doctored, to be sure, but that’s Slater through-and-through.”

Trevelyan gave Bond directions and then the agent was off on his merry way, leaving Moneypenny to end the call.  He asked her if he ought to head over, give Bond some backup, and she reminded him of the ransom conditions.  They were expecting a lone person, no backup, and Bond would thank everyone with bullets if the deal went south.  Trevelyan reminded her that they were expecting _him_ , Alec Trevelyan, not James Bond.  Something happened on Moneypenny’s side; there were shouts and the distinctive if muffled sound of someone emptying their stomach onto the floor.  Moneypenny said, “Come if convenient,” and hung up.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have joked with Bond while he was still on the line, but for all that Trevelyan had been undercover and off the grid, he knew all about Bond’s budding romance with the young Quartermaster.  He and Bond spoke often.For Trevelyan, Bond was much like the brother he’d never had.He didn’t know what Bond thought of him—the man could be bloody hard to read even on a good day—but they got along well enough, so he assumed Bond felt about the same.They looked out for each other in all ways.Trevelyan had a bed for when Bond showed up unexpectedly; Bond kept Trevelyan’s favorite whisky on the bottom shelf of his bar.They called each other often.Sometimes it was just a friendly hello, a reminder that in a world that was rapidly changing, some things stayed the same.Other times, it was to do what the psychiatrists at MI6 could never seem to.

It had been one of those calls when Bond had first told Trevelyan about Q.

News of M’s death spread like wildfire in Australia.Trevelyan had called as soon as he heard the news.He’d caught flack for it, too, since it meant that he directed his attention away from his target, who he was meant to be watching at all hours.Trevelyan didn’t care, not really.Bond was more important than some oil tycoon.

Bond didn’t usually talk about people.He spoke of places, of sights, of experiences, but people never mattered to Bond.There were exceptions, of course; Bond had always joked about M, the old M, and her old ways.If he’d had a particularly bad mission, he’d speak ill of Ponsonby, thought they both knew that never ended well.That was about it, though.People came and went to Bond.He might as well have been surrounded by faceless entities for all of the attention he gave them.He remembered everything about the people who crossed his path: faces, names, dog’s birthday, what-have-you; but Bond never found them important enough to talk about, at least not with Trevelyan.Then there was Q.

Bond had admittedly been fairly drunk at the time.Bond was an interesting drunk in that he got muddy, then progressively clearer as the liquor ran on.Trevelyan couldn’t explain how he could tell the difference between a sober Bond and a dead-drunk Bond over the phone except to say that they’d been friends long enough that he just knew.At any rate, Trevelyan had expected Bond to be drunk by the time he called.M was dead; Trevelyan wanted to be drunk, too.

Bond had recounted every step that he’d taken since returning from the “dead”.When he got to Q, though, Trevelyan knew something was up.He was stunned into silence as Bond recounted their conversations verbatim.He remembered what kind of jacket Q had been wearing at the gallery where they’d met for the equipment exchange.He knew Q’s cologne.He knew that, though Q wrote with his right hand, he was born left-handed and had worked very hard to become ambidextrous.Bond knew all of these things and rattled them off one by one, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to remember, to recount.

After Bond had hung up, explaining that he had things to take care of, which was to say that he was out of liquor and needed more, Trevelyan had looked up Q’s file.As expected, everything interesting was redacted, but his picture remained.Trevelyan remembered staring at the photo.Q was Bond’s type: an angular face bordering on jagged; fragile-looking, and likely more so in person; dark hair, dark eyes, thin lips.Treveylan had said a prayer to a god he didn’t believe in that this wasn’t Vesper Lynd, Take Two and had returned to his mission.

Weeks later, Q came up in their conversations again.Sober now, Bond told him about Q’s court marshall.Q had been almost singularly responsible for Silva’s escape, and though he hadn’t intended for it, his pride and his carelessness had enabled the series of events that led to M’s death.There were those (almost entirely outside of MI6, Bond had noted with a certain degree of savage satisfaction, as if no one had a right to be angry at all) who wanted to see justice served and Q behind bars.As Bond spoke of Q’s trial, his voice reminded Trevelyan of sandpaper and gravel.Trevelyan’s foster father had been a carpenter, and he’d sanded wood religiously.If Trevelyan closed his eyes, he was a boy again, sitting on the steps of the porch, listening to the man run over beams upon beams of wood, smoothing them down to silk.

After that, Q kept coming back.He was like a bad penny, Trevelyan had thought, sour that someone so preoccupied Bond’s thoughts—someone who, by the sounds of things, didn’t reciprocate Bond’s obvious feelings.Bond told Trevelyan when Q tested a new gun, something that could shoot lasers to take out heavily armoured trucks from several hundred meters away.Q made Q Branch into Q Division, Q was recognized for his one year anniversary as division head, Q this, Q that.Trevelyan was terrified.He was waiting for one of two calls.The first and infinitely preferable one would be from Bond himself, one where Q wasn’t mentioned at all.Bond would never admit to a failed courtship, particularly not when it mattered to him, and so it wouldn’t be spoken of, but they would both know and life would go on.The second call would be from someone else informing Trevelyan that he needed to come get his friend under control because he’d snapped after facing rejection one too many times from the coy Quartermaster.

Both fears were unfounded.Shortly after Q’s first anniversary as Q, Bond called to tell Trevelyan the good news: his dear Quartermaster was now _his_ dear Quartermaster.

Truth be told, that hadn’t been long ago.They’d gotten together shortly before Bond was shipped off to Bahrain to help 0014 with a particularly nasty situation, which made a little less than a year altogether.Still, they were far enough along that Trevelyan knew that Bond wouldn’t appreciate any humour at Q’s expense on a good day, to say nothing of his hostage crisis.This kidnapping was Bond’s worst nightmare.This was Vesper Lynd and M and everyone else Bond had ever cared about rolled into one convenient package with a time bomb tied to the front.

After Bond left and Moneypenny hung up, Trevelyan deliberated.Bond would rush in there, guns blazing.No matter the outcome, if Bond wasn’t killed or otherwise incapacitated, none of Slater’s people would survive the encounter.Bond didn’t leave loose ends untrimmed.He would find every last one of them and plant a bullet between the eyes.The question was, could he do it?Did Bond have it in him to take on Slater’s people by himself?Trevelyan didn’t know who or what Slater had to work with nowadays, but he reckoned that if she was still in business, she was just as bad as she’d been before, when Trevelyan had come in with his own Berlin operation.

That settled it for him.Trevelyan grabbed his knives, his gun, his keys, and his phone.He’d just started thinking about packing a bag when he smelled the smoke.

Apparently he hadn’t beat the brother into good enough submission because he’d managed to find his friends, and they in turn had torched Trevelyan’s house.  The brother and four others fought him as he tried to get out of the rapidly-burning residence, but while they had the numbers, Trevelyan was bigger, faster and stronger.  He outclassed the lot of them even on their combined best day, and he didn’t let any of them off easy.

By the time he’d turned them into bloody heaps in the sand, though, the house was a lost cause, and everything inside was burned to a very hot crisp.

With nothing else to do, he texted Moneypenny.

“ _It’s more than convenient.  Tell Bond I’ll meet him there._ ”

 


	10. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman in the white haïk phones it it. Flesh and blood, flesh and blood...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the beta work!

_One hour remains_

 

Approximately one hour before the first explosion, the woman in the white haïk left the chemicals facility to pick up dinner for Slater’s men.  They were starving and antsy without a quarry to hunt, and the woman in the white haïk needed a good excuse to leave.Outside, the few birds that flew overhead were black paper cutouts against an orange sky.It was a little after 1700 CET.She wished, not for the first time, that her employer would have just handled this himself rather than waiting.The boy in the basement was just that: he didn’t know anything.He didn’t know there was anything to know at all.She scowled to no one in particular and supposed there was nothing to be done about it.

Rather than head directly into the city, she took a bicycle and headed in the opposite direction.  On the way, she passed several other abandoned facilities.She knew from what research she’d done of the area that most of them were old chemicals plants.All of them were ringed with dry dirt and the same menacing signs warning anyone who might come near to keep off.Several products designed for military use had been tested at these sites in days long gone by: there were pollutants in the soil, toxins that killed any grass that tried to sprout, and in the water, such that to drink it unfiltered meant horrible sickness even now, decades later.It was a veritable wasteland.

The miserable environmental conditions meant that all of the plants had been cleared out long before Slater established her base of operations.There was no one to see the woman in the white haïk cycle past and no one to follow her.Assured in her isolation, she took a series of turns that took her from open country to the outskirts of Berlin proper, a dodgy district overrun with stray dogs and litter.She turned down a narrow side street that dead-ended and stopped.Carefully, she left her bicycle propped against a wall in front of one of the thin houses that were shamed together in rows along the block.She had no lock, not that it would have mattered.Slowly, she climbed the two stairs to the squat porch. When she rang the bell, a man with heavy lines all about his face and sagging gray clothes let her in.With one last look at the dilapidated street behind her, she disappeared into the house.

The man, whom she knew as the _lapin_ , did not speak German, and his English was spotty.  The woman in the white haïk wasn’t familiar with the northern Russian dialect that he knew best, but they made do.

“He did not come,” the woman in the white haïk said.

The _lapin_ frowned.  “Why would he?  I told you, he does not know.He thinks he is dead.No one told him.”

“The boy does not know, either.”

“He has never known, either,” the _lapin_ echoed.“Too young.”

The woman in the white haïk shook her head and pulled the cloth further across her face.  It was cold in the _lapin_ ’s house.  A sad square rug did little to warm up the entrance to the house, and though the front door was closed, a draft still stirred her scarf.The walls were thin, and in the next house over, she could hear a woman shouting obscenities in German and the sound of slapping.The woman in the white haïk did not like Berlin.  

“They must be told,” she said simply.

The _lapin_ said nothing.

The woman in the white haïk excused herself.  She passed through the kitchen, where the _lapin_ ’s wife roasted red meat in an enormous pot.  She sang to herself: “Пойдём же, пойдём, мой сыночек, Пойдём же в курень наш родной, Жена там по мужу скучает, И плачут детишки гурьбой…”  In the next room, two little children played with a train set.  They ran the plastic wheels across another faded carpet, tracing invisible swirls and turns as they went along.

Finally, the woman in the white haïk came to the phone at the back of the house.  She rearranged her scarf, then lifted the telephone off of its receiver.  With one finger, she dialed a number, pressing the buttons firmly as she did so.

It rang only once.

“It better not be raining in Madrid,” the man on the other line said sharply.  He spoke a vicious Russian, hard and fast: KGB Russian.

“No, but the flames grow tall,” the woman said.

The man on the other end cursed.  “Of course not.  He didn’t know.”  He sighed.  The woman in the white haïk had heard this already.

“Our _lapin_ did not want me to tell you,” she said.  “He fears you will destroy the city.”

A sharp noise, less like a gunshot and more like steel on stone, sounded across the line.  “Destroy the— He is my _son_.  My flesh and blood.  Flesh and blood!” he yelled.

The woman in the white haïk bowed her head, though he could not see it.  “I understood you perfectly.”

“I know, I know,” he said.  She could picture him sitting back, calming himself.  “Flesh and blood.”

The woman in the white haïk smiled to herself.  “The woman believes she can sway your youngest.  She still believes that he covers for the older one.  She will not harm him yet.”

“Yet,” the man said.  “It is the yet that worries me.  Thank you for this information.  It is most enlightening.”

“And the _lapin_?”

“Make sure he is suitably compensated for his troubles.Nothing more.”

The call ended.  The woman in the white haïk replaced the phone on the receiver and turned.

The _lapin_ had trained a gun on her.  Sweat collected in the lines on his face to make moats that struggled against gravity.

“I have a family,” he stuttered, his Russian faltering every so often.  His body trembled.“I have risked everything for this.”

The woman in the white haïk raised her hands and asked, “How much does the British Intelligence know?”

The _lapin_ ’s gun did not move, but the safety was still on.The woman in the white haïk watched his hands rather than his face for any sign of movement.“I do not know,” he said.“I do not care.I must be moved.I have children.”

The woman in the white haïk shook her head.With one hand, she reached into the folds at her side and extracted a thin black card.

“Compensation,” she said.  With one hand raised, she carefully lowered the card to the floor.  As she stood, she held up both hands again for good measure.

The _lapin_ took the safety off of the gun.  “Not good enough,” he said.  “Your employers, they will kill me, and then you, and everyone else they brought in.They will kill us all, and you offer me this, as if this has meaning?Your money means nothing to me.I want protection.”

The woman shook her head.  She could hear the children in the next room giggle over some inside joke.  “They will kill,” she said.  “Not your family.Not you.Not me.”

“How do you know?”

She kicked the card forward.  The _lapin_ bent to pick it up.  The gun remained trained on her.The woman in the white haïk was forced to acknowledge that he was likely trained, that his aim was likely much better than hers, and that any attempt she made to disarm him would result in the death of his family.She hadn’t come prepared to dispose of bodies.

“Turn around,” he ordered.  His voice trembled, but his arm was still.She stayed put.  “I said turn around!”

From the kitchen, the _lapin_ ’s wife called to ask him why he shouted.  The _lapin_ glanced over his shoulder briefly but otherwise did not move.

“They will not harm you,” the woman in the white haïk said.

“How do you know?” the _lapin_ repeated.

The woman in the white haïk gestured at the card, then slowly lowered her hands.  “They bring weapons, yes.  Big ones.  But they will not use them.  They do not kill family.”

The _lapin_ loosened his grip on the gun.  She tilted her head.He did not believe her, but he would let her leave.She did not understand, but she knew better than to question it.“Leave now,” he said.His voice was soft now.

The woman in the white haïk bowed her head.  Skirting the _lapin_ , she passed the children, then the wife.  She did not stop until she swept out the front door.  Her bicycle, by some miracle, still leaned against the wall.  Aware that the _lapin_ watched her from a front window, she slowly pedaled back to the chemicals factory.  A helicopter and several planes passed over her head, and three black trucks rolled past her.  She ignored each and every one in favor of pedaling.The wind was stale, and the air smelled of sour milk and dust.A few heavy, dark clouds made irregular shapes against the reddening sky.The woman in the white haïk smelled the air to check for rain but could discern nothing.She wondered if she could go home after this.She was tired of Berlin, tired of watching.  

When she was a block away from Slater’s facility, the first explosion detonated.

 


	11. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten minutes remain on Q's ransom when Slater's plans take a drastic turn.

_Ten minutes remain_

 

Slater truly thought that eight hours would be enough.

The target was close — according to Gorbachyov, any flight from his location into Berlin would take no more than a few hours, and the drive was short.  What’s more, he had access to a plane at a moment’s notice through his dear MI6.  Surely he’d seen what they’d done to Q.  Even if he hadn’t, wouldn’t someone in that infernal organization contact him?  Where they truly so heartless that they wouldn’t…?  If so, Slater admired their brutality.  That being said, they’d all but handed her a rat.  She wouldn’t kill him, not yet.Eventually, with some persuasion, the boy would come around.  For all that he spoke like an idiot, she could see the truth.  There were thoughts under all of that hair of his, powerful, potent thoughts that could be dragged out and used ever so carefully.

There would be, of course, the problem of the father.Adam claimed that he could keep him under control and in the dark about Q, but Slater wasn’t so sure.The moment the ransom was up, they would be working on borrowed time.Slater had promised a body if Trevelyan failed to arrive, and a body would need to be produced, though where she could find a suitable lookalike, she did not know.It would be so much easier if Trevelyan would just show his ugly, scarred face and be done with it.

Slater waited without much patience alongside her captains on the first floor of the factory.She watched the sky transition from blue to a stormy green, then on to orange.The sun would be down soon.The clock ticked, and nothing but dust blew across the drive to Slater’s makeshift headquarters.  

On a stool beside the double doors at the front, Lapotnikova polished her knives as she awaited the arrival of their old enemy.Lapotnikova, Slater’s left hand woman and lieutenant, was one of the few who had been in that very location a little over a year ago when the agent known as Alexander Trevelyan had all but slaughtered them.Lapotnikova bore a scar from a bullet wound that had tore through her abdomen that day.She liked to say that metal had stolen the flesh, but it was the resentment that festered there, potent as any disease, that kept it from healing properly.

Musiał, Slater’s interrogator, fiddled with his gun where he lounged close to Slater.He flicked the safety on and off until Gorbachyov told him to lay off.Musiał was new to the operation—Adam had insisted on him—and Slater had her eye on him.He was a hothead through and through.She didn’t like hotheads anymore than she liked being told who she could take on her own operations.Gorbachyov, for his part, was Slater’s right hand man.She liked him more so than any of her other subordinates, and while that said more about his personality than his abilities, Slater had once seen him crush a living man’s skull with one hand.It had been magnificent.

Lapotnikova, Musiał, and Gorbachyov all stood near to the front doors with Slater, ready to welcome their guest back to where it all began.The other captains stayed near the back, where they could see both the sky and the rear facilities the clearest.Watching that end were Chelomeyev, Chistyakov, and Ramazanova.Chelomeyev shuffled a pack of cards absently whilst watching the sky; the ransom video had been his idea, but he’d done little since.Something of a layabout, he did enough to keep himself alive but lacked ambition.Slater might have dropped him, but he was bland and could be relied on in a pinch, so he stuck around, always the last to take action.

On the other end of the room, Chistyavok and Ramazanova huddled together in a corner, muttering to each other in Belarusian slang.Half of the time Slater couldn’t understand what they wanted or thought, but Gorbachyov vouched for them, and for Slater’s purposes, that was good enough.Gorbachyov had told her that they were orphans, brought together by circumstance.Ramazanova had a scar from a rushed Caesarian section, Chistyavok possessed the knife that had made the incision, and together they’d killed more men and women between the two of them than Slater could put to her own name.Like Chelomeyev, neither of them was predisposed to do anything alone.They excelled at following orders, however, and Slater excelled at giving them, so the union was perfect.

“Perhaps we misjudged,” Chelomeyev suggested finally.His words were as slow as his demeanor.Slater watched him as he shifted, moving as if gravity were an insurmountable force.His cards were ringed with dirt and stained from repeated shuffling.“He’s a bastard through and through, after all.”

Slater silenced him with a look.  “No,” she said.  “They will come.  The boy is Quartermaster.  He is important.”

“They’ve made sacrifices like this before, _Pane_ ,” Musiał said without turning from the front window.  He had a point, impetuous though it was.Slater narrowed her eyes at him, though he could not see.Musiał was the last person she expected to doubt the operation, and she was in no position to tell him off.Adam had sent him personally, and Slater didn’t consider him one of hers.If Trevelyan did show, she hoped Musiał would do them all a favor and get himself killed.

“They will come,” Slater insisted finally.“He is family.”

In truth, she was growing nervous.  She hadn’t anticipated waiting this long.  She did not like to wait.The sun was almost set.

“Where’s Leyla?” Ramazanova asked finally.Her voice was a full octave below any woman’s Slater had ever heard.

“Who?” Lapotnikova questioned from across the space.  She had gone through each of her knifes twice, wiping and testing for sharpness.Slater was sure she could see herself in the reflection of the metal as clear as if it were a photograph.Still, Lapotnikova pulled another knife from a flat holster on the inside of her thigh and began polishing that one for a third time.

“The Azerbaijani,” Chistyakov said.  He gestured around the face.  He was easier to understand than Ramazanova, but not by much.“Woman in white.”

“Went for sandwiches,” Musiał said.  “Didn’t take your order?  Or couldn’t she understand your bastard tongue?”

“Shut up, all of you,” Slater demanded.  “When did she leave?”

Everyone grew quiet.  “Maybe half an hour, a little more?” Gorbachyov suggested.

Slater didn’t like waiting, but she liked deviations in the plan even less.

“I said no one was to leave this place until we finish,” she said quietly.  Her men were silent.  “Did you forget?”

A chorus of “no” erupted around her.  The excuses were pitiful.

“We were hungry, _Pane_ ,” Musiał said.  “That _pute_ —”

“It’s been hours—”

“Just an errand—”

Slater opened her mouth to call for silence and stopped short.  A telephone rang.

Her men looked at each other.  “Get it!” Slater said.

Gorbachyov and Chelomeyev exchanged a look and stood to go to the phone.  Slater had been surprised to find it there when they reclaimed the facility, back when they first hatched plans for revenge.  That it hadn’t been destroyed in the shootout over a year ago was a small miracle.  She had never expected anyone to call it, of course.

Chelomeyev’s grasp on languages other than Russian was best, so he picked up the phone.

“Hello?” he asked in flawless German.

A few moments of tense silence followed, and all of the blood in Chelomeyev’s face fled.  He lowered the phone, pressing it against his chest.  “For you,” he said, looking at Slater.

Slater could feel the eyes of her men on her.  Someone knew they were there.  Someone had called.

She truly despised deviations from the plan.

She stepped across the floor and snagged the phone, cradling it against her left ear.

“Hello?” she asked.  Her German was not so good as Chelomeyev’s, but it was passable and, as it happened, entirely unnecessary.

“Annika Slater,” the voice on the other side said.  Slater’s mouth flooded with saliva, and she swallowed out of fear.  She did not speak.  “Do you know who I am?”  Russian, hard and fast: ex-KGB, Slater guessed, if only by the tone of voice.In truth, she did not need to guess.She had heard him speak before, under different circumstances.Better circumstances.To hear from him now…

“I do,” Slater replied.  She kept her voice neutral as her mind raced to come up with a solution.Adam had failed—the father knew.Damn him and his tricks—!Slater had known that he was a slippery snake when she’d made his devil’s bargain; she just hadn’t anticipated that anything could escape her iron grip.Her mind was awash with possibilities.She could let Q go—no, no, what if Trevelyan showed up?He’d want Q, they wouldn’t have him, and Slater would lose men for nothing.No.But if she kept him…

“You have someone who belongs to me amongst you.  You will release him.”

Slater found her vocal chords again.  She forced them together to create sound, though they trembled with a fear she could not allow herself to feel.  “He is key to our plans,” she said, aware that her men looked at her now, judged her.  She could not show weakness—

“I do not care.  Do not deny that he is your prisoner: set him free.  I came with all of my cargo, with everything I’ve worked so hard for.  Fail to comply, and I will see that it rains from the sky above your head.”

The line went dead.

For a long moment, Slater stood with the plastic phone in her hand.All eyes were on her back, watching, waiting for cues.She took a deep breath in, and as she exhaled softly, she crushed the phone in her palm.Without a sound, she pivoted on her heels.

“You and you,” she said, pointing to the Belarusians.  “I want you to find our dear Leyla.  The rest of you stay put and await further orders.  Spread the word to your men: we do not stand down.  I want a watch put over our guest in the basement.No one comes in or out of this building without my knowledge.Understand?”

The flurry of assents somewhat soothed Slater’s jarred world as she gathered herself together and went down to the basement.  She would not set Q free—no, he was too valuable.  The conversion would have to start immediately.His assistance would be her salvation.

 


	12. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has an opening, but the universe has other plans. Where is Bond?

The woman in the white haïk was long gone when Slater returned.

“Time’s up,” she announced with a yellow smile, clapping her hands together.  Her lipstick looked redder than it did before, or perhaps her skin was paler.  Q said nothing as she sat down at the table.  “Now it’s time to decide.”

Q remained resolutely silent.  He felt better with bandages holding his ribs in place.  The woman in the white haïk had brought some painkillers, but Q didn’t trust what was in them so he had refused.  It still hurt to breathe, but the sensation abated with each passing minute.

Though he still hurt, Q rejoiced: the woman in the white haïk hadn’t been able to bandage him without undoing the cords around his wrists.She’d handcuffed him to a chair to keep him in one place, and when she left she retied the knot.Q blessed her: she’d done a terrible job.All he needed was an opening.

Slater’s smile widened.  “He left you,” she said, “with us.”  She leaned forward.  “Forfeited you.  Didn’t even bother to come.”

Q said nothing.Bond hadn’t come.His opening meant little if he had no escape route.The other implications of Bond’s absence gnawed at his stomach, but he could not lend them credence.No, Bond meant to come.Bond would come.Q would escape first, but Bond would come.

“You know, I had a brother, once,” she said.  She rubbed her left wrist again.  “He was a good man, or so I thought.  The day he came home from prison,” she said, “he took me by the hand and told me that he was going to teach me something.  Now, at first I was excited because he was so much older than I, he knew so much more.  But he scared me.  He tried to kill me.  He said he would teach me submission, and he grabbed me by the throat and _shook_.  I did not like his lesson, no, so I tried to stop him.  I hit him hard.”  She clucked, shaking her head.  “Not hard enough, sadly.  I made him angrier than he had been, which was not good.  He told me that because he was angry that he would teach me pain instead.”  Slater leaned across the table.  “And do you know what he did?”

Q did not respond.

“He took me down behind the house,” Slater continued, satisfied with Q’s silence.  “He told me that if I cried I would receive a fate worse than death.  When he said it, I believed him, and I was just as quiet as you are now.  Do you fear death?You should, my dear.You should.Now, my family, we lived on a farm in the old country, where there’s always work to be done.  We chopped wood by a little stream where we would get fresh water.  He took me down there and told me to put my hand on the block.  I told him no, I wouldn’t do it, so he hit me until I stayed down.  Then he took the axe,” she said, raising her right arm, “like so, and held my arm like so.”  Her left arm lay on the table.

Slater paused.  To Q, she appeared to be something out of an old movie that had been paused right before the climax.  She could move neither forwards nor backwards, but she flickered with each breath.

Then, all at once, her right hand crashed down and hit her left wrist with a resounding echo.The reverberations lasted several seconds after impact.

“Like so,” she said with a slight giggle.  “Just like so.”

Adjusting her gloves, she sat back into place.  “I understood, then.  He had taken my power.  I had hit him, and he had taken that hand away from me in return.  I learned then that the only way to get anything in life was to take.  I do not mean in the sense of a pirate, no.  I mean, how do you say it?  I learned that you had to look inside yourself, at what hurt _you_ most.  You had to take that ability away from others.”  She raised both hands like a clergyman praising God.  “Then you are indestructible!”

_Silence_ , Q reminded himself.  He thought of the girl in the white haïk.  Silence had given her power.Q had tried to speak with her, and she’d allowed his words to roll off her her like oil on water.

“Now, this is how I live,” Slater said.  “I find what hurts me, and I take it, and I make sure it can never do such a thing again.  Do you see?” Slater asked.  “If you do not, think of this: your kin has hurt you.”  There was that word again, _kin_.  Q thought Slater needed a new translation for “boyfriend”, but he wasn’t about to say so much.“He has not come for you.  He has abandoned you to people he knows to be murderers and thieves,” she said, gesturing at herself.  “That makes him a monster, yes.  Not someone worthy of protection.”  She leaned across the table.  “Now, I want to destroy him, I do.  He killed my husband.  He killed my son.  He would have killed me, but I,” she said, shaking her left fist, “I know the meaning of pain.”

She reached further across the table to stroke Q’s cheek with that left hand of hers.  Q could feel: underneath that red velvet, there was nothing but iron.

“Will you help me teach him?”

Q was bent on silence, but the universe was set on sound.  The lights flickered, the camera in the corner of the room shook, and something that sounded remarkably like a bomb went off overhead.Slater grabbed the table as if to steady the rocking of the room by herself.Q involuntarily shrunk down.Memories flooded his mind.

_The walls rumbled, then cracked.The ceiling slid down a few centimeters at a time, then all at once.Crushed between the rubble and her own desk, Rebecca, who monitored darknet purchases made to and from English soil, breathed her last.Q had heard it.He had been right beside her.Had he been no more than a meter to his left, he would have met the same fate._

_Then there was Richard, a veritable genius with synthetic chemistry who practiced tai chi to help manage his anxiety.When a problem gave him difficulty, he often moved his chair out of the way and went through the motions right there at his workstation, using the movements to calm his racing mind.Richard pulled at the blocks, panting and sweating and swearing.He had made progress towards freeing himself from the rubble until a block above his head came loose and tumbled down, smashing his skull.Q had heard the crunch and splat, though he had been looking the other way, to where Rebecca’s arm, the only thing Q could easily see, lay motionless.Q had closed his eyes then, but the sounds had continued: there were cries, pleas for help, voices that he knew.His colleagues were dying all around him, while he himself was spared, surrounded by rubble but not hurt.When they’d pulled him out, he could walk, but the rest of them—there were stretchers covered with sheets, bloodstained bits of plaster and concrete, the smell, the horror—_

The door to Q’s holding cell shrieked as someone threw it open, and it was just enough to bring Q back to reality.

“ _Pane_!” Q recognized the voice of the man who had beaten him in front of the camera.Revulsion boiled up in Q’s stomach, but another shake of the room and Q realized: Bond had finally come for him.Q smiled in satisfaction.The agent would kill them all and then some, and he would take Q away from that place.Q had been wrong to think even for a moment that he would be left behind.Just because Bond had left others didn’t mean that he, Q, would suffer the same fate.  

Just in case it proved important for records later, Q made use of the Russian he had learned at the old M’s behest to listen in on the conversation that now unfolded before him.“They’ve got guns,” the man was saying.“Big ones.Lapotnikova and Gorbachyev and all their men are doing what they can, but there are so many.We have to go.”

“No!” Slater roared back.“We are no spineless dogs!”She gestured to Q, whose eyes went wide.“Bring him upstairs.We’ll see how eager they are to blow us to bits when we’ve got their boy.”

Q made to get away, but the chair behind him caught on a divot in the floor and sent him crashing to the floor.Q forced himself to keep his hands together behind his back rather than cushion his own fall.It wasn’t time yet.The man who’d attacked him snatched him off the floor and hauled him to his feet, grasping his upper arms.Without the mask, Q thought he recognized his assailant from MI6’s files: Nika Musiał.

Slater all but ran ahead of them, and Musiał pushed Q to keep him moving.They exited into a long hallway and made for a set of stairs, up which Q could hear the sounds of gunfire.Another explosion rocked the compound as they began to climb, but Slater continued undeterred.Q couldn’t have wiped the smile off of his face if his life depended on it.

From his vantage point behind her, Q could not see where Slater kept her gun, but as they reached the top of the first flight of stairs, she pivoted and shot just over Q’s shoulder.Q turned to find two men crumpling to the floor at the base of the stairwell, dead to the world.They’d been trying to ambush Slater from behind.The smile Q thought wouldn’t leave his face for about a week sunk into a frown as he stared at the bodies, prodded as he was by Musiał.He didn’t recognize the face of either of the men, and he knew nearly every field agent MI6 had.Did they bring in mercenaries to aid Q’s rescue?Were they somewhere dangerous enough that MI6 couldn’t risk coming for him themselves?

Did that mean Bond wasn’t there after all?

Musiał pushed Q after Slater, then abruptly pulled him back, covering Q’s body with his own.Slater stepped forward into what looked to be a rather large, open room and headed to the left just as orange lit Q’s vision and forced him to look away.Heat blasted his face and abruptly died out, and Q opened his eyes: most of the lights had been blown out.To his left, Q could see the faint outlines of the remains of a lab, though bullet holes studded all of the equipment.To his right was the darkness: the outside world was a pitch black studded irregularly with orange flames.He caught a glimpse of troops of men armed with heavy guns before Musiał pulled him in closer.

“Now, now,” Musiał grunted.“None of that now.You’re staying right here.”

It took Q a long moment to realize his opening.Musiał took a lengthy pocket knife from his thigh and flipped out the blade.  

Q exhaled slowly.He’d practiced this with Bond.

Q smashed one of Musiał’s feet with his own as he pulled his hands out of the weak knot.Musiał’s grip faltered, and as the knife fell and he reached for it, Q dropped to one knee, taking Musiał down with him with the help of the man’s own momentum.Rather than lunge for the knife, Q thrust his elbow into Musiał’s stomach, then aimed higher and hit the man squarely in the solar plexus.Just as Musiał got a grip on Q’s hair, then his neck, Q grabbed the knife and swung it up, getting the man’s attention while he twisted the hand away from his neck, breaking three fingers in quick succession.Musiał cursed, but Q changed his grip on the knife and stabbed once, then twice.He hit Musiał in the shoulder and then missed on his second strike, only to be knocked backwards by a punch to his own guts.Q felt his ribcage wrapping itself around Musiał’s first.His body still remembered the beating he’d received earlier, and it shuddered and shook.

Q knew better than to close the distance that had formed between them as a result of the blow.Musiał had knocked him closer to the atrium where Slater had disappeared, and Q ran for it.He heard Musiał run after him, but he didn’t care.He would look like a fool in front of MI6’s men and their mercenaries, running as he was from some goon, but what did he care?He was still alive.He hadn’t been sure that he would make it out at all.

The room burned all around him, scorching hot, and he nearly tripped over a corpse.He glanced down as he passed to see a tall, muscular woman, her eyes blown wide open with shock and death.Her right hand still clenched a serrated knife, a nasty piece of work designed to leave jagged wounds.Q rounded to his right, aiming to get outside and very nearly ran into a tight, neat row of guns.

The sight was surreal.They stood, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door to the outside, each with an identical stance and with identical dispassion.They were not MI6, nor were they any mercenaries Q had ever seen.One of them met Q’s eyes.Q thought he could hear the leather of the man’s gloves as he tightened his finger on the trigger.

Then, nothing.The man said something Q couldn’t understand, an encoded order, and a collective nod went up in the line of gunmen.The one who Q had locked eyes with pulled Q towards him, holding his arm in a surprisingly light grip.Moments later, Musiał crashed into the room, and every gun fixed on him in the time it took Q’s heart to take half of a beat.Musiał’s hands were in the air just as fast.One of the men broke off to put him in handcuffs.Musiał was dragged out of the atrium, but Q remained.

The beginnings of panic set in, and Q began to fight back.Before he could do anything, Bond spoke up in his head: _“You know as well as I do that there’s a time to fight, a time to run, and a time to sit back and watch.I know you know which is which, so pay attention to your surroundings.If you’re not in danger, if you can learn something about your enemy, stand back and wait it out.Your opening won’t disappear while your enemy doesn’t move.”_ Q considered what he would advise an agent to do in his place.The man holding Q’s wrist did not squeeze or tug, nor was he paying Q the slightest bit of attention.Musiał had faced down their barrels the moment he stepped inside, but they had hardly batted an eye at Q.They weren’t here for him.Slowly, Q’s eyes dragged to the other end of the room.

In the near-complete darkness of the room — the explosion had taken out all but a few of the perimeter lights — Q caught sight of Slater.For a crazed instant, he thought that she floated above the ground.As his eyes adjusted, he saw the truth: a hand held her there, and that hand was attached to a long, corded arm, and that arm was attached to a man Q had only seen by way of one incredibly grainy photograph on the day that he became Q.

_“Who is he?” Q asked._

_“You don’t know?” M responded.Q looked up to see her watching him, her eyes sharp.Q felt his palms go damp.Disappointing his employer on the day of his promotion?That was an all-time low, no questions asked, even if he had been promoted only due to extreme circumstances.After a moment, M straightened herself slightly and said, “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”_

_“Ma’am?” Q asked._

_M walked to the window of her office.As she gazed out over the Thames and into the city, Q stood awkwardly and tried to figure out what to do with his hands.“His name,” M said, “is—”_

“Anastas!”Q craned his head to look at the speaker, who stood outside, but the line of gunmen blocked his view.In front of him, the man holding Slater above the ground, Anastas, shifted slightly.“We need to go!” the man Q could not see continued.He spoke some dialect of Russian, and he had an accent Q couldn’t place.

“A moment!” Anastas roared.A silence fell over the room.All was quiet save Slater’s laboured, painful breathing.

“Anastas, he’s here, we need to go!”

Slater dropped to the floor as Anastas finally turned.He stared at Q, and Q’s pulse hit his ears.In his mind, the file M had shown him, the one attached to the grainy photograph, played on repeat.As the shortest file on one of England’s most dangerous adversaries, Q had no trouble recalling it:

 

_Name: Anastas_

_DOB: ~1948_

_POB: Unknown_

_Occupation: Arms dealer, leader of_ вртеж, _leader of_ тишина

 

That was the entirety of the official file.Unofficially added to it was a note from M:

 

_Suspected involvement in the Combe-Ivanov Affair and the Guillaume Affair.Other involvements suspected, but not yet founded.If this man is located, do not engage._

 

The note was approved by a policy implementation: any sighting, information—even a word about the man called “Anastas”, and M was to be notified directly, no middlemen, no waiting, no exceptions.

A grating, pulsing sound broke the silence.Q took altogether too long to recognize it as laughter.

“He can see you,” Slater said, speaking garbled Russian.Q could hear something rattling in her lungs even from across the room.“He can see you, and he knows now—knows that you’re a _monster_ , not a man, a—”

“Get him out!” Anastas shouted, turning back to Slater.“If I see so much as a bruise,” he warned.The man holding Q’s arm didn’t wait to hear the end of the threat as he tightened his grip and pulled Q away from the scene.Q stumbled after him, watching as the line of men expanded to block his view once more.Vans waited outside, painted black and idling in the dust.The fumes made Q cough as they approached.

Anastas—one of the most dangerous men on the MI6 watchlist—wanted him alive and unharmed.Q didn’t know whether to laugh or have a nervous breakdown.

As he said a prayer, wishing that anyone in MI6 might turn up sooner rather than later, a shriek, sharp and stingingly high, rose from inside the atrium, then cut off suddenly.Q was shoved into the back of one of the vans, and he lay where he hit the seat, shaking.He tried to sit up, but his body refused to comply.He curled up upon himself and thought of Bond.Bond was coming.He’d have his work cut out for him, but he was coming.

Q repeated that to himself until the syllables turned to gibberish.

 


	13. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond makes it to the Berlin plant site -- where's Q?

Bond’s watch beeped.The time was up on Q’s ransom.  

The agent gunned the car, a pretty Alfa Romeo he’d snagged out of the airport.According to Trevelyan’s directions, he knew he had to be close.He swung a wild left, then nearly missed the subsequent right.It was dark, and the roads were badly lit.The chemicals facility was in the middle of slums: there was an island of several abandoned plants, and then all about them ghettos, mostly immigrant tenement houses.While Bond thought that civilian casualties were unlikely if he played his cards right, if things spiraled out of control, the population density was too high to sweep any sort of accident under the rug.Bond very nearly asked Q how to proceed with minimal damage, then remembered he had neither an earpiece nor Q.His blood boiled and he drove faster.

The darkness obscured the smoke, but Bond could see orange flares up ahead.No, they were too bright to be flares—these were fires.They weren’t out of control, so far as Bond could tell from a distance, but they were moderately large.Bond had never been one for the sciences but he knew that, by and large, chemicals and fire didn’t go hand in hand without some degree of chaos.He took the safety off of the Walther he’d taken as compensation for the enormous fuck-up that was Siberia.If there was trouble, he’d be prepared.  

He should have known better.

As Bond slowed to a halt in front of the plant, he thought he had stopped breathing entirely.

The facility itself was bombed out.Tyre tracks crisscrossed the dirt patch that surrounded the plant, though the wind made it impossible to tell when they’d been made.The windows had all been smashed, and the doors hung off their hinges.Inside was as perfectly dark as the clouded sky above.Outside, though, was a different story.Bonfires—and not the kind you take children to, celebrate in front of, that sort of sentimental thing—generated the lights Bond had seen.The bonfires were square and stacked high, and their fires burned tall and orange.Bond could smell the acrid smoke even from inside the car, and the distinctive drift gave him a moment’s hesitation before charging his blood with another dose of rage.After checking his rounds, Bond shut off the ignition and set foot outside.

His suspicions were confirmed immediately, and his stomach sunk even as his need to shoot the nearest living thing grew exponentially greater.He knew that smell.He knew it from Madagascar, Bolivia, Bahrain, Siberia, and so many other places.It was the smell of burning flesh.

They weren’t bonfires, they were pyres.

Bond walked slowly toward the closest one.The base was entirely wood, or was when it began.Now, most of the original fuel had burned down.Bond could see one of the structures whose base must not have burned evenly, for when the wood turned to ash, the thing fell over.Bodies had rolled off the top and now burned in a collapsed heap.

Bond couldn’t tell how many corpses had been left there to turn to dust.He could see three fires, but he didn’t know how long they’d been burning.Only charred bones remained of some, though Bond reminded himself that a hot enough fire, fueled by good combustible chemicals, could do that sort of damage quickly.He didn’t have to be too late.As he surveyed the damage, he saw something he’d missed the first time around: behind the middle pyre, just beside the doors, stood a head.Bond approached it slowly, only to let out a breath.It was a woman’s head mounted on a pike.Her face was contorted in horror, and red lips hung wide open.White hair hung in ringed clumps about her face.Most curious, though, was how the head had been put up: there was a metal hand attached to the top of the pike, and one of the fingers speared the head.

Bond turned back to the pyres.He’d never seen the woman personally, but he knew from Siberia that the head belonged to Annika Slater, the one Trevelyan had mentioned.That suggested that the burning bodies belonged to her men.

What, then, had become of Q?

Bond raised his Walther and turned back toward the facility.There was no way to pick through the pyres on the off chance that Q was in one of them.(He couldn’t be in one.He just _couldn’t_.)Bond pushed even the thought of such a thing away.Q was alive.Bond just needed to find him.Just because someone else had gotten there first didn’t need to mean the worst.Q would be alive.The question was where.

Using a small torch he carried with him just for the purpose, Bond stepped into the darkness of the facility.

His eyes adjusted as best as humanly possible, but even then he could see very little.Just to his left Bond saw a serrated knife, its blade shiny and black.Leaving it for the moment, Bond shone light on the rest of the room.The only real feature was a metal table that had been overturned, likely in whatever fight had taken place before his arrival.There were two dark stains, one on either side of the table.On the back wall was a landline.As Bond approached, he saw that the cord had been cut and the phone it had once held had been smashed.Blood lined a nearby alcove and dripped from one of the exposed pipes.Looking about, blood was everywhere.

There were several ways to proceed.One door led to what appeared to be the back of the facility.Even from where he stood, Bond could see through to the other side by way of a window at the back.The facility wasn’t particularly wide, though it was long and, according to Trevelyan, deep.Many of the labs were underground.

That left four other choices of doors, two on either side.Those to Bond’s right were all still shut, but the ones to his left had been bodily ripped off of their hinges.Knowing his own limitations, he had to wonder: the only way Bond knew to do that kind of damage was with a small-scale explosion starting on the other side, but there were no scorch marks to indicate anything of the kind.

Bond set that aside.His mind made up, he picked the closest of the left doors, passing by the bloody knife.Almost immediately, he heard the telltale crunch of broken glass beneath his feet.A quick look around revealed that he was on one side of what were once labs.He could see through to the other hallway, the one that he hadn’t taken, by virtue of the fact that someone or something had knocked the glass walls down, allowing free passage between the two sides.Lab benches still stood in the middle, cemented as they were to the floor, but they appeared disused.A blood spatter ran along the middle of the hallway.It had soaked into the floor as well as a cut cord, thick and strong.Bond knelt over the blood on the floor and found it was still wet.It was too shallow of a puddle to hold up against the oppressive heat of the building, so it had to be fresh.Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t been long ago.

Bond’s eyes returned to the bloody cord.There was no proof yet that the blood was Q’s.He forced himself to stand.

As Bond continued on, he came to a stairwell and another set of options.He could continue on into what appeared to be a hallway identical to the one he’d just passed through, or he could take the stairs either up or down.Remembering Trevelyan’s information, Bond chose down.

Down one flight of stairs, he found two corpses, both taken down by small caliber bullets.He didn’t recognize either man, and they wore no uniforms.Bond checked them over and found nine knives, six handguns, three vials of poison and one home-made bomb.These men had come to do serious damage, but someone had gotten to them first, probably taking them by surprise.

They’d both been shot from the top of the stairs, leaving Bond with little information to work from.If these were Slater’s men, they’d have to have been down there guarding something—or someone.Bond shone his torch down a narrow hallway.If they were Slater’s mean, they’d have been protecting whatever was down there.Carefully, Bond began to move down the hall.There were doors on either side in regularly spaced intervals.The hallway ended in one final door, slightly ajar.

Bond nudged it open, then swung it full force, checking the room quickly.It was empty, and Bond’s hopes sunk.

He had seen the footage often enough that the pattern of the stains on the floor had become ingrained on his memory.As the smell of almonds hit him full force, he recognized the room where the footage had been filmed.Q had been held here.  

Now, other than a table with two overturned chairs, nothing remained.Weak sunlight filtered in from a thin window at the top of the room.Nothing of Q remained.

“So you came back for him.”

Bond whipped around and nearly fired.In the darkness, it looked like a ghost before he shined the torch and—there, the figure of a woman, covered head to toe in a white haïk.

“Who are you?” Bond questioned, making sure she could see the weapon.The woman did not raise her hands, but she took a step back as if to disappear into the darkness.

“You aren’t him,” she said.Her voice trembled.She spoke English, but with a thick accent.

“Who are you?” Bond repeated.He had the safety off already, but he mimicked doing it again.She stepped back once more.

“I could ask you the same question,” she asked.Bond knew this tactic: she was showing courage she did not feel.

“Turn around and walk,” Bond ordered, gesturing with the Walther.“No sudden movements.Hands above your head and _walk_.”

The woman was slow to do as he asked.Carefully, she raised both arms, then turned in place.Bond closed the gap between them and pressed the barrel of the Walther against the back of her head.

“ _Walk._ ”She walked.Bond led her past the corpses, shining the torch on them so that she could see the bullet holes and the surrounding bloodstains.

“Did you do this?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Who did?”

“I do not know.”

“Did you know these men?”

“Yes.”

Bond pushed her up the stairs, and she briefly lost her balance.

“Where is he?” Bond demanded.

“Who are you talking about?”

“There was a man being held here,” Bond said.“He’s not here now.Where did you take him?”

“I did not take him anywhere.He was gone when I came back.”

“Came back?So you saw him here?Who took him?”

The woman in the white haïk clammed up just as they reached the door to the outside.Bond grabbed her and shoved her against the nearest wall.

“Where is he?” Bond shouted.His blood pounded in his ears.“Where?”

The woman in the white haïk was spitting “I don’t know” as fast as she could, but Bond wasn’t paying attention.Through the broken window above her head and past the pyres, Bond saw the headlights of a sleek car pull up and stop next to his.

 


	14. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan is very, very concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for endless support!

Only James Bond would steal an Alfa Romeo to go save his boffin boyfriend from Russian mobsters.

Trevelyan looked it over as he got out, straightening his lapels.  God, it stunk out there.  Someone had set bodies on fire out in the open.  Lovely.  If it had been Bond, they were going to have words.  It took weeks to get the stink of burning flesh out of clothes, and they were in an urban area.  Political clean-up would be a nightmare, to say nothing of the dry-cleaning.

Trevelyan grinned to himself.  Moneypenny and Tanner’s lectures were clearly taking a toll on him if he was seriously worried about political clean-up.

As he approached the dark facility, he still had to wonder.  If Bond had done it, that meant that he’d finally snapped.  It hadn’t happened in a long time, a double-0 losing it on the job, and it had never happened to anyone who lasted beyond the first few months.  Trevelyan remembered the old 002 and grimaced.  Poor bastard.  He never recovered, but then again neither did the civilians that he’d shot up on his second and last job.  Trevelyan had watched the debrief, and it hadn’t been pretty.  Every double-0 attended those kinds of debriefs, and not just because M had made it an unofficial rule: it was an act of solidarity, showing the soon-to-be-ex-double-0 that his or her experiences and feelings were just as valid as the ones of those who remained with the programme.  Double-0 status didn’t mean strength or cunning, it meant possessing an admittedly rare borderline psychopathic personality and a penchant for gray morality.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Even so, 002 had left a bad taste in Trevelyan’s mouth.  He didn’t usually feel bad for the dropouts, not that he’d seen too many of them, but 002 had been a special case because of how he came to his end.  The poor bloke’s mind had snapped, and he’d lost the ability to tell friend from foe during his second mission.  From what Trevelyan gathered from the docs, 002 developed something of a split personality after he was demoted, most of the time, he was a genuinely happy bloke who filed paperwork and grew orchids, but underneath that was the unstable, erratic fellow who shot men at point-blank range because, in his mind and nowhere else, they taunted him about his first kills.  He might have been fine, having only had one episode a few days after he was brought back, but an idiot from accounting had cornered him not long after he’d been reassigned and he’d broken down.  The official story was that the docs took 002 away, got him stabilized and set up in a different office. 

 The double-0’s knew the truth, though.  002 didn’t just break down, he snapped all over again.  Snapped that accountant’s spine, too, and hadn’t stopped there, not even when the kid was dead.  No, he’d kept at it, pulling at limbs until they came apart in his hands, ripping bones out of sockets.  By some miracle otherwise known as the all-seeing M, 003 and 005 had been the first to come across him, and they had orders to put him down.  Trevelyan didn’t like the duo as a rule, but they did a damned good job, given the circumstances.  Had they not informed the other double-0s (it was standard policy; just like attending the debriefings, every double-0 was informed when anyone who had ever attained double-0 status died) Trevelyan himself would never have known.  003 and 005 had spread the fake story to keep everyone satisfied and had pulled a stellar clean-up in record time.  Of course, if anyone bothered to dig deep enough, they’d find that the office 002 had officially been transferred to didn’t exist, that the accountant had conveniently “retired” and then had been run over by a car the very next day, and that someone brand new (in reality an agent back from a deep-cover operation in Mexico, someone no one had seen for seven years) who conveniently switched to a new office a few weeks later had been the one to meet with 002.  All neat and tidy on the surface, it was.  It made Trevelyan sick.

He couldn’t live through that, not with Bond.  Trevelyan liked Bond.  Bond liked Trevelyan, or so he thought.  If he’d snapped, if he’d killed all of these people and set them to burn out in the open, Trevelyan would have to call it in, and Bond would likely be put down, or at least demoted.  Work was never allowed to get personal.

Of course, if it had gotten personal, if Bond had broken, the only thing that would have pushed him over the edge would be the death of Q.  Bond didn’t care about anyone else enough to pull this kind of a stunt.  He’d cared about Vesper, and he’d nearly gone on a rampage after her, but he’d held himself back, if only barely.  He’d been in the danger zone of dropouts then, but not anymore: Q was a different story, and a different level of affection.  Trevelyan frowned, grinding the sole of his shoe into the dirt.

No, Bond hadn’t done it.  He couldn’t have.  Trevelyan straightened his suit, even though it already hung straight.  Q wasn’t dead, so Bond wasn’t broken, so everything would be all right.  They weren’t going to go through what Trevelyan was imagining, so there was no point.

“James!” Trevelyan called, hiding his concern with his usual levity.  “Where the bloody hell are you?”  A figure shot out the door to the facility, trailed by one very angry Bond.  Trevelyan took in the situation quickly: Bond looked furious, but his suit was free of soot and dirt.  If he’d assembled the pyres, he’d done it in different clothing.  Trevelyan highly doubted that even a man so well trained as Bond would think to switch clothes after murdering his enemies.  

Trevelyan caught the fleeing figure, a woman in a white haïk, moments before she careened into him and held onto her arm firmly.  She yelped, and he squeezed harder.

“Hush,” he said.  Louder, he shouted, “Tell me you didn’t put some woman’s bloody head on a pike, eh?”

Bond walked slowly towards him.  Trevelyan could read rage in every line of his body.  Q wasn’t going to be dead, they weren’t going to go through this again, Q wasn’t going to be dead—

“It’s Slater’s head, mounted on a hand, actually,” Bond said, “and no, someone else put this display on.”  He turned his attention to Trevelyan’s quarry.  Trevelyan was grateful; Bond missed his sigh of relief.  “This one snuck on up me when I scoured one of the lower levels.  She’s the only one left, at least the only one I found.  Says she recognizes two of the bodies in the basement.”

“You mean not all of them were burned?”

“No,” the woman answered for Bond.  “Only the enemy.  We didn’t know we’d lost men down there until I followed you.”

“What do you mean, the enemy?  Who _are_ you?  Where is Q?”  Bond trained his Walther at the woman, and Trevelyan lowered it gingerly with a finger.  He had the sense that Bond had been at this for some time, and they hardly had the proper conditions for an interrogation.

“Now, now,” Trevelyan said to the woman.  “You’ve made my friend very angry.  Look what you’ve done, eh?  Does that look like a gentle man to you?”

The woman blinked at Trevelyan, looking at him for the first time.  “Unbelievable,” she said.  “You did come.  I didn’t think you knew.”

Trevelyan said, “Of course I came.  Couldn’t leave James here in a lurch, now, could I?  But then, if you knew that I was supposed to come here, that puts you in with the kidnappers, and that doesn’t look so good.”  He emphasized his words by squeezing her arm tighter.  He felt something snap, and she yelped in pain.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked.  He glanced at Bond to make sure that he wasn’t overstepping, but Bond just nodded at him.  “You people did as much to Q when you grabbed him, so I’ll admit, I don’t feel bad.  I’m not one of those guys where women are off-limits.  Now, if you would tell us where he’s been taken…”

“I don’t know,” she wailed.  “He’s alive, he’s alive, but I don’t know… They left without me, and I don’t know where they went, I swear…”

“Who left without you?” Bond cut in.  Trevelyan recognized that tone: softer, gentler, but laced with steel.  Bond only brought that tone out when he was getting ready to snap necks.  Bond hadn’t killed anyone yet, but he was teetering on the edge.  The woman, for her part, displayed a remarkable lack of self-preservation and remained silent.  Trevelyan could have killed her himself.

He thought fast.  Bond would take her down if she didn’t help and soon, and he’d only get angry if Trevelyan tried to reason with him.  Carefully, Trevelyan swung her out of Bond’s reach, pulling her towards one of the pyres.

“Well, for all the good you’re worth, you might as well join your enemies,” Trevelyan said lightly.  The woman kicked and screamed.  “At least they don’t protest.”

“Musiał,” the woman wailed.  “I work for Nika Musiał, he’s—”

“Nobody,” Trevelyan said.  The name rang a bell in his head, but no alarms went off.  Musiał was a known entity, but no leader.  “You’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s the truth!”

Trevelyan pulled her closer to the fire, and she scratched and clawed at him to try to get away.

Finally, she shrieked, “Fu Ziqiang!”

Trevelyan stopped.  In his peripheral vision, he saw Bond go stiff.

“Say that again,” Bond said slowly.  The cold, murderous tone hadn’t disappeared.

“Fu Ziqiang,” the woman sobbed.  “Fu Ziqiang.”

Trevelyan hauled her away from the fire.  “You work for Fu Ziqiang?”

The woman nodded rapidly.  “Yes.”

Trevelyan looked to Bond.  “We need to take her in,” Trevelyan said finally.

“Q is still missing.”

“She knows where he is.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, and Trevelyan jerked her towards one of the pyres again.  She shrieked and was ignored.

“We can get her to talk, but not here,” Trevelyan said.

“But Q—”

“We can’t find him until she tells us where to go,” Trevelyan said.  “We’ll just be wasting time if we try to wander around here.  The wind’s taken every track around for miles away, and we’re surrounded by immigrant tenements.  The likelihood that we’ll find someone who’s willing to give a straight story isn’t big enough to warrant the time it would take.”

Bond looked at the ground.  “This isn’t like you,” he said.  “You’re supposed to be the hothead.”

“Speak for yourself.  We’ll find your boy.  My money says that this one,” Trevelyan said, “has a singing voice to rival a canary.”

 


	15. Titans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moneypenny takes charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mega thanks to mistflyer1102 for helping make this chapter presentable!

A little less than three hours ago, Mallory had rushed from Vauxhall to 10 Downing Street for an emergency meeting with the Prime Minister.  Sensibly, he’d left Moneypenny in charge.

With Mallory gone, Moneypenny got to work.  Thankfully, the most unnerving of tasks had already been taken care of, as Mallory had packed up his entourage himself.  Moneypenny didn’t know how she would have handled their meddling and their politics otherwise.  None of them had been there for Q, anyway.  Like sharks circling an injured sailor, they had smelled blood and swarmed, waiting to close in on the kill.  The push to incorporate MI6 into MI5 was strong amongst them, and it was obvious that they’d been less than impressed with the apparent loss of Q.  Only a certain grudging respect for Mallory kept their mouths mostly shut, but even Moneypenny had heard them griping: Q, a division head with access to some of the most classified secrets England had to offer, had been taken off of the street right in front of his home; if that was how MI6 did things, what right did they have to continue to function as an independent entity?

Moneypenny scoffed at them and had left Mallory to chide them back into line.  So long as that initiative, to push the two branches of England’s security into one, remained on the table as a legitimate possibility, she sincerely hoped that she wasn’t tapped for the promotion she knew she would one day face.

With Mallory and his flock of goons out the door, Moneypenny had started giving orders.  She had pulled R aside first, using the concerned shouts of everyone left on the floor to mask the sound of her directions.  “R, listen carefully.  You’re going to go back into Q’s office and you’re not going to let anyone in except me, do you understand?” Moneypenny had asked.  R shook her head no.  “No one can know about this,” Moneypenny said, tapping R’s shoulder.  “They’ll panic, and if we’re going to get Q back, we don’t need panic, we need action.”  She waited for R to nod her head yes.  “Right.  Now, you go back into that office and don’t open the door for anyone other than myself.  I want you to call your teams in the order they contacted you.  Get eyes on the weapons and fast.  Orders are to observe but not to engage—and this is important, do not engage even in the event of a missile launch.  Everything runs through you, and you run through me.  Don’t come out on the floor if something happens, just message me and I’ll come to you.  It’s imperative that you stay in there now.”

With R taken care of, Moneypenny signaled the division heads to meet her in the hall.  One by one, they filed out, forming a tight circle around Moneypenny.  To her left stood Dolly Appleton, second to Megan Langley, head of the Clandestine Service, and Estebe Colton, Chief Personnel Officer.  Anabelle Ely and Stirling Queshire, the joint heads of the Domestic Support staff, came next.  Behind them were Elven Honeycutt and Roger Yates, the Chief Resource Officer and the Chief Recruiter, respectively.  Directly before Moneypenny was Cyrus Longwood, the Chief Medical Officer, and Yin Lee, Chief of International Relations.  Martin Dvorak and Lalit Misra, Chief of Enforcement and Chief of International Support, respectively, stood behind Lee.  Last, standing in for Q was Afanen Argall, his second, and their under-chiefs, Walid Ahmed, In’am Ajam, and Anong Metharom, the Chief Technology, Analytical, and Discovery Officers.  Other than Q, only Langley, Parry Kimberly, the Chief Intelligence Officer, and Bill Tanner, Chief of Staff, were missing.  M had taken them when he’d left for Vauxhall.

“Your attention , please,” Moneypenny said.  “The situation has escalated.  Q’s situation remains the same, but we’ve received a number of Code Black alerts and we can afford no mistakes.  I need Q Division cleared of civilians as quickly as possible.  Return all of your employees to their offices, and keep it quiet.  All boffins without clearance level 2-Z or higher are to be moved out, too—Lee, I want you to take point on that.”  Lee nodded curtly.  “Barring their actual return, in one hour, we will be announcing the return of Q and Bond.  The story will be that they’re to be medevaced back here.  Longwood,” Moneypenny said, “I want you to brief your doctors.  Get them on board with our story or else out of the building.  If anyone asks, we got them out, Q particularly.  We need stability and order right now.  If an employee fails to follow procedure, I want them sent home and debriefed on lack of proper conduct in a state of emergency.  Understood?”

There was a flurry of nods.  As the circle broke, the heads flooded back into Q Division, shouting orders for their people and gathering up the flocks.  Lee, hung back and approached Moneypenny.

“I need you to leave me Ponsonby,” Moneypenny said.

Lee gave no indication that she’d heard.  “Code Black?” she asked.

“Right,” Moneypenny said.

“How many?”  Moneypenny gave a tight smile.  “That bad?”

“Oh, no.  It’s peachy.”  Lee didn’t so much as blink.  Moneypenny shifted her weight so that she stood further from the other woman.  “You know how it is,” she said.

“Of course,” Lee said.  “I’ll make sure Ponsonby stays.  Just remember, my division exists for a reason.”  Lee smiled.  It was terrifying.

“Right,” Moneypenny said, trying to suppress the full-body shudder she felt whenever Lee got too close.  “I’m just hoping it isn’t necessary.  Q and Bond are good people.”

Lee watched her for a long moment, then returned to Q Division without offering a response.  As the others left, shooting Moneypenny looks that were by turns concerned and questioning, Lee gathered her people—and they were obviously her people.  Rather than calling for them, they gravitated towards her automatically.  They massed instantaneously.  Just as easily, she could identify the low-ranking Q Division members who Lee and Argall had to ferry out.  Lee’s own operatives had their leader’s characteristic blank expression, and the boffins looked downright terrified by comparison.

Moneypenny watched them all leave.  When she was sure the floor was clear, she stepped back inside, only to find the eyes of a generous number of boffins fixed on her.

“Your attention, please,” she said, though it was hardly necessary.  “Up here, please.  If there is anyone left in this room who doesn’t know what Clearance 2-Z is or doesn’t have it, now would be the time to leave.”

Moneypenny took the resulting silence and stillness to mean that the division heads had done their job and gotten everyone else out.  “Whatever your orders have been until now, bury them.  This isn’t the time for questions, it’s the time for action.  This is level one: locate agents 006 and 007.  I want no questions about 006’s involvement; find both of them.  If you’re running other operations, double-0 or otherwise, I want them handed off to our Cambridge and Brixton teams with absolutely no chitchat.  I want all searches localized around the Berlin area, Germany, but keep a wide radius.  Alpha team, I want you searching the area for tracker signals.  Both agents have a history of removing anything that enables trace, but keep trying nonetheless.  Beta team, I want you covering social media: Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, whatever—if anyone so much as catches a glimpse of either of the agents or Q, I want to know about it.  Gamma team, I want you on news reports: whoever took Q isn’t sitting around twiddling their thumbs.  Anything since the footage arrived this morning—arson, murder, petty theft, anything at all.  Once again, focus on the Berlin area.  That’s where they’ll be.  All teams: the moment you’ve got surveillance on the agents, Q, or his kidnappers, I want to know about it.  Move!”

There was a flurry of motion as the Q Division employees scrambled back to their keyboards, fingers flying as screens flashed.  Moneypenny heard several of them calling outside stations, sending off mission parameters and making the usual hand-offs.  Q had once told Moneypenny that he found it reassuring, sitting in the depths of Q Division, because he knew that there was good, sound, secure data flowing all around him.  Moneypenny had found it hard to understand him then, but she began to see it as she stood on the main floor.  There were networks upon networks, all at her disposal, sending encoded missives and using backchannels into all manner of resources that even the film industry, for all of its pomp and imagination, couldn’t begin to replicate.

But it wasn’t the time to wax poetic about the power of modern technology.  There were a few things left to wrap up first.  Argall approached Moneypenny now, her attention squarely fixed on her tablet.

“That went faster than I’d have expected,” Argall said.  Even in heels, Moneypenny was only just as tall as Argall, and Argall always wore flats.  “I was expecting more of a fuss.”

“Well, when Lee’s involved, people tend to get out of the way,” Moneypenny said.

“Mm, not everyone,” Argall said.

“I’ve yet to meet anyone not terrified of her,” Moneypenny said.  The short woman laughed.  She took her tablet under one arm and cleaned her glasses with her shirt.  “What?” Moneypenny asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” Argall laughed.  “I like her, that’s all.  Lee, that is.  She’s got style.”  Glasses back on her face, Argall finally looked at Moneypenny and asked, “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need you to put the floor on lockdown.”

Argall blinked at her once, then twice, then sighed.  Moneypenny saw Q in the gesture.  “You’re asking for a stampede.”

“No, I’m asking for space.”

“They’ll panic, and so will everyone else.”  Argall stepped in closer.  “The other heads were already nervous, what with Q’s disappearance and all.  You’ve got what’s left of Q Division hunting for a pair of agents whose exact locations, I think, you already know, you tell us we’ve got not one but several—several, you said—Code Black alerts, and now you’re telling me that you want to lock the doors?  You must understand how this looks.”

Moneypenny knew that her logic was sound and her reasons twofold:  first and foremost, just as she’d told Argall, the boffins needed space.  Though Moneypenny was well aware that many of them had objected, some of them vocally, to Q’s promotion back in 2006 on the grounds that he’d only been at MI6 for four years, all of them had grown attached to their new Chief.  In the two years that he had been Q, he had expanded every programme they had, taking the old nuts and bolts of the Cold War days and incorporating IT, R&D, and Analytical.  Q Branch had evolved into Q Division, and the division itself, by virtue of its size and sheer output of sound intelligence, now had more clout than any other division, including the double-0 section.  Every non-routine mission was run by Q first.  Q almost single-handedly orchestrated the allocation of funds to make sure that 90% of proposals originating amongst his people got the materials they needed.  Q had rebuilt the entirety of Q Division from scratch, modeling it around the personality and skill set of his team to make a truly killer department.  The boffins, to say nothing of MI6, needed Q, and they needed the space that Q had given them to bring him back.

The second reason, and the one Moneypenny couldn’t mention, was R.  Within the walls of MI6, Moneypenny, Mallory, and R were the only ones who knew about the Level 5 threats in the Berlin area that had come pouring in all at the same time.  She needed the boffins to watch Bond and Trevelyan just as she needed R’s teams to find the weapons.  If they congregated in the same place… Moneypenny didn’t want to think about what would happen if they all came together in one location.  She’d have to call in Lee’s people.  They could use Bond’s old obituary, but Moneypenny didn’t think she could stomach writing Q’s.

R’s teams were instructed to tell no one about the threats or their locations, and Moneypenny expected that they’d all obey that order.  Mallory knew how to maintain order and calm: he would tell no one but the Prime Minister, Tanner, Kimberly, and Langley, and he’d use every ounce of persuasive skill he possessed to make sure that no one else found out.  Moneypenny herself intended to keep her mouth shut until told otherwise.  R, however, had no such training.  She’d all but bounced off of the walls in panic.  So long as R was locked in at Q Division, she couldn’t get very far with the information, no matter how panicked she became.  The remaining risk was that she managed to get one of the boffins up in arms, but Moneypenny thought that keeping her in Q’s office would mitigate that kind of damage.  It was a delicate balance, but she thought she’d struck it well.

Rather than say any of this, Moneypenny said, “Precisely, I want to lock the doors.  Look, we have a very, very dangerous situation.  We have a security breach, and we don’t know how big it is.”

“And now you add on a security breach,” Argall huffed.  “Precisely why you should get more people involved, I’d say.  How do you plan to track it down?”  Moneypenny gestured at Argall’s tablet.  Argall paused, then said, “You must be joking.”

“Not in the slightest.  With Q out of the picture indefinitely, you’re our best resource. This is top tier, so pay close attention: someone accessed the files of every double-0: contact information, personal data, what have you. I need you to find our leak and I want you to do it quietly. I need to know who it was and how it happened.”

“You think this was an inside job?” Argall asked.

Moneypenny nodded.

“So one of ours—”

“Find them.”

Hesitantly, Argall nodded.  “Fine.  I’ll chase your leak.  But that doesn’t answer the Code Blacks—plural, Blacks.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Argall watched Moneypenny warily.  “All right, then.  You’re the boss.”  Argall turned away.

“Don’t forget to put the floor on lockdown.”

Argall paused, then nodded.  Moneypenny watched her walk across the floor to the main doors.  She did something to the controls, and the keycard consoles flashed red three times before going black.  The doors were locked from the inside.  Only Argall could let them out.

“Enjoying yourself?” someone asked.  Moneypenny’s pulse was in her ears.

“Ponsonby,” Moneypenny said as the woman sidled up behind her.  She was short and on the homelier side of attractive, but there was no one, not even Yin Lee, who Moneypenny would rather not cross.  “No, not exactly.  Why are you here?”

“Don’t be impertinent,” Ponsonby scoffed. “It doesn’t suit you.  I go where I will, and at this moment, it is my will to speak with you.  You’re playing the role of the dictator, and every successful dictator has a good advisor.”

Moneypenny smiled.  “What can you tell me?”

“Only what you already know, I’m afraid,” Ponsonby said.  “I’ve been worried about Seven for quite some time now.  Psychiatric determined shortly after the section was formed that strong emotional attachments push double-0s to extremes.  Either they outperform themselves, operating in a safe, effective manner, or they become erratic liabilities because that they have something meaningful to lose—or, of course, they drop out entirely, but that’s never been a risk for this Seven.  No, but he has veered between the other two at an alarming rate ever since this particular relationship began, and don’t get me started on _Vesper._ I thought we were going to have to run a clean sweep.”  Ponsonby gave a harsh, grating laugh.  “Not a lot of fun, that protocol.  We’d have lost a damn good agent, too.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” Moneypenny asked.

“To be honest, I’m not sure, but I can guarantee that if Q dies, we’re going to have a mess worthy of Yin Lee on our hands, and we’ve got enough blood on our trail for the press to stalk without something like this.  It’s getting harder and harder to recruit double-0s, anyway.  We can’t afford to lose Seven, not now.”

“And if he finds Q while he’s still alive?”

Ponsonby’s smile echoed the old M’s.  “Seven’s marksmanship has improved quite a lot since his relationship with the Quartermaster began, and he’s started to outperform even his younger self.  If he finds Q alive, then the idiots who took him better run: it’s the only chance the bastards have to get out alive.”

“What about 006?”

“What, you mean what will he do?  Hopefully, he’ll see that Seven’s out of his mind and act the sane one for a change.  Otherwise we have a Berlin-shaped crater to troubleshoot and two loose cannons rolling around deck at the same time.”  Ponsonby coughed lightly, then dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief.  “Why, might I ask, is Six there in the first place?”

Moneypenny said, “This is why I wanted to speak with you.  The ransom footage was sent to all double-0s.”

“Yes, I heard you talking to Argall.  You think we have a leak,” Ponsonby said.  “I would like to inform you that you’re out of your bloody mind.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.  Bond and I called every double-0 we could reach on Bond’s hunch.  Every last one of them received this footage, and no one else we know of did.  006 decided to meet Seven in Berlin because he recognized the kidnappers.”

“Oh?  And who are these paragons of the trade?”

“Slater.”

Ponsonby pursed her lips.  “Annika Slater?”

“That’s right,” Moneypenny said.

Ponsonby shook her head.  “Makes sense that she’d aim for Six.  Bastard has it coming.  He bungled that job good and well.”

“What?”

“You heard me.  He should have crossed Slater off when he had the chance, but he saw a pretty face and slowed down.  Men,” Ponsonby spat.  “I’ve always said that we should train women exclusively.  Our female double-0s are our most lethal.  Can’t match them.”

“Really?  Last I checked, 008 had the highest success rate,” Moneypenny said mildly.

“And _she_ ,” Ponsonby said, “is a _she_.  I sent that memo out months ago.  Can’t you read?”

Moneypenny cleared her throat.  “Ms. Ponsonby, I do believe that the leak is real.”

Ponsonby sighed.  “What do you want me to do about it?   _I_ didn’t leak the information.  My Zeroes are my children, or as close as I’ll get to them.  I’ve always imagined myself as Gaia.  You know Greek mythology?”  Moneypenny nodded, unsure of how to proceed.  She watched Argall out of the corner of her eye.  Argall worked quietly by herself, waving away anyone who came close, but she had a puzzled look on her face that Moneypenny didn’t like.  “Yes, I am Gaia.  And my Zeroes are the Titans, my monstrous, unstoppable children.  They’ll plunge the universe back into chaos one day.”

“Their reputations certainly match,” Moneypenny said.

“Of course.  They are feared, and respected.  There is nothing better,” Ponsonby said.  Once more, Moneypenny could see M’s smile on her face and shuddered.  “You could have been treated the same way, you know.”

Moneypenny swallowed.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No,” Ponsonby said, “I think that you do.”

“I’m going to go see how Argall’s doing,” Moneypenny said, moving away.

Ponsonby caught her wrist.  Moneypenny stopped dead. “I am Gaia,” Ponsonby said, “and I am protective of my own.  You bring my boys back, Miss Moneypenny.”  She let go of Moneypenny’s wrist, but Moneypenny still did not move.  “By the way,” Ponsonby said, and Moneypenny could hear her walking away, presumably to find a better vantage point for the room, “I’ve considered you one of us ever since M and I talked about it.  You look after yourself, too.  Can’t be losing children left and right like this, not at my age.”

Moneypenny’s breath was caught in her chest.  As if through water, she saw Argall approach her.

“Ma’am?” Argall said, unsure.  “I’m getting something strange.”

“You found the leak?” Moneypenny asked.

“No,” Argall said.  “Actually, I started by looking through surveillance files… 006 and 007 appear to be on-site.  Footage has them coming in through the basement garage not five minutes ago with a hostage at gunpoint.”

Moneypenny stood up straight.  “And Q?”

Argall was silent.

 


	16. Ransom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you mistflyer1102 for all of your help with this section!

R paced Q’s office.  She felt trapped, like a rat in a cage.  It was for everyone’s own good, she thought to herself.  Everyone else already had Q to find.  No one needed to know how nuclear doom loomed overhead.  R winced.  If Moneypenny said she had to stay in here, then she bloody well better _stay in Q’s office_.

The problem was, Q’s office still smelled like grassy vomit.  Not only that, but R was tired and hungry.  If it had been any other day, she would have called it quits hours ago.  Locked in as she was, she paced, not only to think and to feel less enclosed but to stay awake.

R had instructed her four teams to check in with her at four minute intervals, ensuring that she received an updated report every minute on the dot.  So far, everything had gone according to plan.  All threats had, as initially predicted, converged on the Berlin area.  They’d stopped somewhere just outside of the main city, though the exact location was unknown to the teams.  R had instructed them to monitor the situation from as far away as possible.  She liked her operatives, or at least she liked the few who she’d made contact with.  She didn’t want to see anyone get hurt.  Not only that, but there was always the possibility that other nations had picked up on the nuclear movement and were watching as well.  If someone went wrong out there, R’s operatives would be safely out of the way and could beat a hasty retreat if need be.

From what her operatives could see, the arms dealers in question only intended to make a pit stop in Berlin.  Where they were headed afterwards was anyone’s guess, but they were in the process of clearing themselves out.  The dealers were using all manner of transportation — many were on the ground in vans and cars, but one of the teams had found a small fleet of aircraft that were still manned — so they were hard to keep track of.

R screwed her eyes shut and pulled at her hair.  They could be going anywhere.  No one carried around that many explosives and firearms just for fun, so whatever they were planning couldn’t be good.  These people meant business, but whether they’d picked up more cargo or unloaded some while in Berlin was a mystery.  R kicked the corner of Q’s desk.  She hated the uncertainty.

R chalked it up to exhaustion, but she noticed a few runs in that one minute was going by without an alert.  She’d stopped reading them so carefully when she saw that they all said the same thing — convoy’s on the road, headed presumably toward the planes, no dangerous action being taken, that sort of thing — but the lack of a beep told her something was very, very wrong.

She scrolled through her recent messages.  Team Two had failed to check in twice in a row.

R shut her eyes and leaned back.  Team Two had failed to check in twice in a row.  Team Two was the Chinese team, or at least the team that had checked in with her earlier: they’d seen Fu Ziqiang moving her sizable assets and had reported to her at once.

Team Two had failed to check in twice in a row.  It was almost time for them to check in again, too; she dreaded the expected silence.  What could she do?  If she told Moneypenny… No, that wouldn’t help.  Sitting wouldn’t help either.  Nothing would help.  R scratched at the back of her left hand.  Something had to help.

Maybe they were busy.  Maybe they couldn’t check in because it would compromise their location.  Maybe, maybe.  R took a breath and told herself that they would check in this time.  Another minute went by that should have been filled with a Team Two check-in.  Radio silence.  If R’s stomach hadn’t already been empty, it certainly would have made itself that way now.

Moneypenny would know whether to make contact or not.  R texted Moneypenny.  She waited a minute, only to receive no response.  Meanwhile, Team Three reported that all trucks were still on the move.  R tapped her foot and shuddered.  All of her other teams were checking in, reporting that everything was normal.  Team Two was silent.  Moneypenny didn’t come to see R, didn’t text her back.

R felt sweat pooling in her palms.  Moneypenny wasn’t going to help her.  There was no M, no Q, and R still had no idea who Loelia Ponsonby was—

Ponsonby.  R latched onto the idea of Ponsonby.  R had already broken protocol by telling Moneypenny, but she could fix this.  There was no Q and no M, but if she told Loelia Ponsonby—

R’s phone was ringing.

She stared down at it.  It didn’t vibrate, it didn’t beep—it rang.  Someone was calling her.

The Team Two leader was calling her.

R swallowed and answered.

“Hello,” she said.  She wished it didn’t sound so much like a question.

“Good evening,” the caller said.  He was male, with a deep voice.  He was not her team leader.

“How did you get this number?” R questioned.  She walked to Q’s desk and shot off an email to Moneypenny, hoping that she would check something.  She tried to forward it to Ponsonby, but she couldn’t find the woman’s name listed anywhere.  R quietly cursed all classified information.  She was a scientist, not a hacker.  What was she supposed to do?

“Are you the head of this operation?” the caller demanded.

R hesitated for a beat, then said, “No.”

“No,” the man echoed.  “I wish to speak to the one known as M.”

R bit her lip.  “No,” she said.  She frantically refreshed her email.  No response from Moneypenny.  What were they doing out there?

“No?” the man questioned.  “And who are you to deny me this?”  R did not respond.  “You see, I have something that your organization had misplaced,” the man said.  “If it were not for me, he would have died.”

R took a breath and tried to remember protocols that she had never been briefed on.  MI6 had never taught her what to do in a hostage crisis.  MI6 had never taught her how to handle arms dealers by phone.  She wondered briefly if this was an everyday occurrence, or if she just had bad luck.  There was still no sign of Moneypenny.

“Are you, by chance, the one known as R?”

R had to sit down.  Any air left in her lungs disappeared.

“No,” she said.  Her voice died before the single syllable could escape.

There was a noise from the other end of the line.  “So you are, then,” the caller said.  “Your lack of training is remarkable and befitting only the one known as R.  Hear me, I am called Anastas, and I wish to broker a deal.”

“I am not—”

“You will do precisely this,” Anastas spoke, “knowing that you hold lives in the balance.”

R paused.  She wondered why she hadn’t started to cry, or beg, or plead, or anything to get out of this mess.  She felt calm and sick, and she hated every moment of it.  “What lives,” she said, “would those be?”

“You lied to me,” Anastas said, “when you informed me that this was not your operation.  These are your spies.  We have known of them for some time.  If you wish to see them returned to you, you will do as I say.”

“And your hostage?” R asked.

Anastas paused.  “He is not part of this arrangement.”

R swallowed.  “Unacceptable.”

“You have not yet heard my offer.”

“You ask me to forsake even one life—”

“He will not be harmed,” Anastas promised.  “You have my word.”

R frowned.   _Still_ no response from Moneypenny.  “And how do I know I can trust you?”

Something that sounded deceptively like a laugh issued from the phone.  “Because I’ve left you a gift,” he said.  “I believe it’s coming your way now.”

R stiffened, then frantically checked the messages of each of her teams.  “What sort of a gift would that be?” R questioned.  Her teams were consistent: everything was normal, they said.  Nothing dangerous, nothing fired.  R checked their stories anyway as she spoke to Anastas.  A scan of the area, using a program presented to her by the old M for monitoring weapons in the air, revealed no launched projectiles.

“Information,” Anastas said.  “As much as you can extract, with the full knowledge that I shall be doing the same to your men.”

“And the hostage?” R pressed.

There was a loud thump from the other end of the line.  “He will not be harmed,” Anastas seethed.  R withdrew, sensing that she’d hit upon something she didn’t fully understand.

“Very well,” R said, for lack of anything else to say.  “If you have already left your ‘gift’, as you put it, what need is there for a deal?”

“I would see her returned, unharmed if possible,” Anastas said.  “If necessary, well, I believe neither of us is innocent to the nature of our respective works, no?”

R couldn’t breathe.  She was learning all too quickly the nature of the work.

“You shall press her, and I shall press your men.  I believe the information shall be of equal quality, regardless of the disparity of quantity.  My deal is thus: we shall return your men if you shall return my informant.”

“I will accept no deal until I know what you intend to do with your hostage,” R pressed.

Anastas said, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That is correct, R,” Anastas spoke.  “His fate is in his hands.”

“Not good enough.”

“Strong words.  You speak of him as if he matters to you, and yet you sent no men to come for him.”

R decided to take the honest approach.  “No, we sent two men after him,” she said.  “Highly trained men, with the single goal of retrieving the one who is now your hostage.”

“There’s no need for airs, R,” Anastas chided.  “I believe his title is Q, no?”

R took a stabilizing breath.  “Your hostage,” she continued, “we attempted to rescue him before you arrived.  We want him back.”

“Who did you send after him?”

In the moment that passed, R ran through her options.  She couldn’t very well say that they’d sent two double-0 agents, nor could she blow any cover they’d potentially gained by giving names.

“That’s not for you to know,” R said.  She hoped she sounded brave.

Anastas laughed again, and R shuddered.  It was a terrifying sound.  “You are bold,” Anastas said, “bargaining where you have no room to move.”

“Either all of my men plus your hostage are returned to us, or we have no deal.”

R took a deep breath and closed her eyes.  She had no idea what she was doing.  If Anastas declined, the deal would be off the table and an entire team, plus Q, would be lost.  R wanted to curse herself but refrained from saying another word.  Moneypenny had yet to reply.  R said her prayers while Anastas considered her terms in silence.  Finally, he offered a response.

 


	17. Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond watches Lee interrogate the woman in the white haïk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the beta-work!

Interrogation Room 20 was a three meter cube stashed deep in the bowels of MI6, far beneath the ground.  There was a tiny table in the middle.  Cemented to the floor, it was covered with a sleek metal finish.  Two chairs sat, one on either side, also cemented to the floor.  There was one door, manned by guards on both sides.  The guard inside the cell always wore sunglasses in case the interrogator decided to use the lights.  The main lights were dull, regular lights, meant only for illumination.  They could not be turned off.  The set of auxiliary lights, however, accessible only to those in the observation booth, could be switched on to illumine the entire room with bright, shining light, blinding its occupants.

Bond seriously considered flipping the switch for the auxiliary lights.  Maybe he’d just leave them on.  Maybe he’d flick them on and off, like a makeshift strobe made out of sunlight.  He couldn’t decide.

The woman in the white haïk sat in the interrogation room, waiting for Lee to arrive.  She’d been in there for over an hour.  When they’d first arrived with their captive in tow, there had been a flurry of activity.  Over the comm line, Argall had been the first to direct them, first to Q Division, then to the interrogation rooms.  At Q Division, Bond and Trevelyan had received their orders from Ponsonby: they were to hand their prisoner over to Lee, who would conduct a formal interrogation.  They could watch in the observation booth if they wished, but they were in no way meant to speak to the woman in the white haïk any more than they already had.

It was an oddity, that: for all that Ponsonby was head of the double-0 section, she rarely gave orders.  She did most all of their paperwork for them and ensured they got interesting missions worthy of their time and expertise, but other than that, she tended to stay out of the way.  That she gave orders now meant that she was serious: neither Bond nor Trevelyan was to take any further part in the interrogation.

Bond had fumed and might have broken down the doors to Q Division—Ponsonby wouldn’t say why they were locked, only that they were and that they would remain that way for the foreseeable future—but Trevelyan had convinced him to get a cup of coffee and come to the booth to watch.  There, they’d both waited for Lee to arrive and begin, idling away the time all the while.  Even the guard on the inside of the cell, a man called Bludger who took pride in living up to his name, looked bored.

“What do you think she’s up to?” Trevelyan asked finally, sipping at his coffee.  He’d pushed back his chair such that it balanced on its back two legs.  He rested his feet on the control panel before the one-way glass, his left heel dangerously close to the light switch.

Bond’s frown deepened.  He had a good idea what she was up to.  “Five more minutes,” Bond said.

“What?”

“I’ll give Lee five more minutes to get started.  If she’s not in that room by then, I’m going in there myself.”

Trevelyan rocked forward, planting his feet firmly on the ground.  “Hold on a moment,” he said.

“Four and a half minutes,” Bond persisted.

“Ponsonby gave her orders.”

“To hell with Ponsonby.”

Trevelyan grimaced.  “Not the best plan, mate.  They’ve got a plan, and you’re compromised.  You know it, too.  So just sit back.  Lee’ll make her sing.  Just you wait.”

“I don’t want her to sing,” Bond said.  He cracked the knuckles along his left hand.  “I want her to scream.  She knows where they’ve taken Q.”  He remembered coming across the schedule of shifts for the interrogation rooms.  If Bludger was covering inside that evening, then it had to be Beam stationed on the outside.  Beam was a twig in comparison to Bludger.  They were paired for guard shifts because Bludger could do the work of two men by himself, and Beam could run like the devil to get help.  Bond could take Beam down without so much as wrinkling his suit.  He’d knock the man silly, get himself inside, take down Bludger—the woman in the white haïk was handcuffed in place, she wasn’t going anywhere—and then he’d start the interrogation the way it was meant to be done.

“Stop that,” Trevelyan said.

Bond looked to his friend.  “Stop what?” he asked.

“Smiling.  I know what you’re thinking, and stop it.  You need to pull yourself together.”

Bond huffed a laugh.  “That’s rich, coming from you.  Did Ponsonby tell you to babysit me?  Don’t be such a bloody prick.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened.  “I’m a bloody prick?  No, mate, that’s you,” he said.  “And Ponsonby didn’t tell me to do anything.  I’m looking out for you.”

“If you were looking out for me, you’d help me get in there and get her talking.”

“I told you, you’re comp—”

“Bloody hell, Alec, she’s our only lead!”  Bond realized belatedly that he was yelling.

“Exactly!” Trevelyan yelled back.  “And that’s why Ponsonby’s playing it safe, you prat!”

“The double-0 section isn’t about safe,” Bond snapped.

“It sure as hell isn’t,” Trevelyan growled.  He hit Bond, Bond hit him back, and they retreated to their separate corners almost immediately.  Bond didn’t like fighting Trevelyan, and Trevelyan was in no mood for a fight.  As it stood, Trevelyan had a bleeding lip, and Bond had a rapidly bruising cheek.

“Sorry,” Bond said, watching the interrogation room.  The woman in the white haïk hadn’t so much as shifted.

“Like hell you are,” Trevelyan spat.  “Prick.”  He exhaled loudly, wiping at his lip.  “We’re going to find him,” he added, softer.

“Alive or dead?” Bond questioned.  Trevelyan said nothing.  “Every moment we waste sitting in here, he could be killed.  She,” Bond said, pointing to the woman on the other side of the glass, “ _she_ knows where he is, and no one’s in there.”

Trevelyan frowned, resting his forearms on his knees as he said, “She claimed not to know.”

Bond sneered.  “They always say that.”

“That one doesn’t look like a liar.  I broke her arm and she didn’t snap.”

“She works for Fu Ziqiang,” Bond said by way of explanation.

Silence fell over the darkened observation booth.  Bond could hear the tick of his wristwatch.  One of Q’s gifts, it had a hidden garrote and several tiny vials of poison hidden in the links.  It had been a last-minute, likely off-the-books addition to Bond’s gear on his first operation after he and Q had officially gotten together.  They’d been dancing around each other for some time before then in a game of push and pull, but they’d agreed to talk it out and get each other on the same page.  Luckily, they’d both felt the same way.  Bond still wasn’t sure what he would have done if, after all that he said, it turned out that Q regarded him as a fling.  He’d have survived, of course.  Bond always thought that that sort of petty romanticism where, once rejected, a man is never the same again, was for cheap novels.  Still, to hear it from Q would have stung.  Bond would have been at a loss.

“Time’s up,” Bond said.  It had been up a while ago, but he felt the need to say _something_.  Visions of the bodies loaded onto the pyres in the dark rolled in his mind.  He saw Q’s face amongst them in his daydreams and shuddered.  He had to do something.  He couldn’t sit there anymore, unmoving, inactive.  MI6 had a Quartermaster to save.  Bond wasn’t sure what to call him on the personal front—significant other was too distant, boyfriend too petty—only that he was someone special who needed to be returned home unscathed.

“James,” Trevelyan said, standing again.

“Don’t,” Bond said.  “Just let me go in there.”

Trevelyan moved to the door, holding the knob with one hand.  He braced himself against it as if he expected Bond to charge him.  Bond just folded his arms.  “We don’t know why Lee’s waiting,” Trevelyan said, “but she always has a reason.”

“Yes, and she also always has reasons for rolling up networks, for letting good agents go,” Bond said.  He all but spat the euphemisms, and Trevelyan winced.  “Lee always has a reason for her numbers, for her ‘allowances’.  Q can’t be part of her collateral damage.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Trevelyan said.  “Something else is up.”

Bond sighed.  “Of course it is,” he muttered.

“I mean it.”

“Of course you do.”

“James.”  Trevelyan’s tone of voice made him stop.  “Ponsonby’s locked herself in Q Division with all of the boffins and Moneypenny and they won’t even open the doors for us?  Where’s M, where’s Tanner?”

Bond knew where M was—buried just a little less than two meters beneath the ground.  Tanner—who cared?  Q was missing.

“James?”

“They’re trying to find Q,” Bond said.

“Oh, sod you,” Trevelyan muttered.  “So your boyfriend gets grabbed.  Happens all the time.  No reason for you to act like a, a…”

“Like a what?” Bond snapped.

“Like a prick, that’s what.”

“Oh, back to the prick again,” Bond muttered.

“Here I am, trying to help you—”

“You’re not helping, you’re sitting on your arse while the one person who knows where Q is sits on hers!”

Trevelyan laughed to himself.  There was no humour to it.  “Forget about it.  You know what?  Do what you want.  I’m going home.”

“Alec,” Bond tried.  Trevelyan shook himself off.  He threw his coffee cup away and went for the door.

“You do what you want,” Trevelyan repeated.  “I’m going home.”

He stepped out into the hall and shut the door, leaving Bond in darkness.  Without Trevelyan, the room seemed smaller.  Bond could smell Trevelyan’s coffee as if it had gone stale the moment he’d dropped it in the can.  The woman in the white haïk hadn’t budged.  Bond wanted to throw a chair through the window.

Bond sunk down into his chair and put his head in his hands.  Q was gone, what was he supposed to do?  He couldn’t remember how to function.  If this had been happening to anyone else, Bond would have given the same advice as Trevelyan had given: take a step back, level yourself, get your head in the game.  Yet he couldn’t take his own advice.  It was _Q_ , not some nameless casualty of MI6’s quiet wars.

He’d hid his face so well that he did not see Lee enter the interrogation room.  He heard it though, and looked up in time to see Bludger rebarring the door, going to stand before it again, arms crossed.  Lee walked past the woman in the white haïk to take her seat with her back to Bond.  She set a large bag beside her chair and placed her hands in her lap.

“Congratulations,” Lee said.  “You’ve managed to break one of our best agents.”  Bond snapped to full attention.  He could not feel his hands.  “The man who came to get you,” Lee elaborated.  “The first to arrive.  You’ve really done a number on him.”

The woman in the white haïk said nothing.  Lee took a file out of the bag and placed it on the table.

“Do you know who he is?” Lee asked.  “I would assume that you do.  After all, you helped steal a handful of files from us not long ago.  His was amongst them.”

“I want a solicitor,” the woman in the white haïk said.  Her voice was rough.  Under other conditions, it might have been melodious, but now she just sounded small and thirsty.

“All in due time,” Lee said.  Bond could only see her back, but he imagined she smiled.

The woman in the white haïk shifted for the first time in the period Bond had been watching.  “I have a right.”

“Rights are for citizens,” Lee said.  “You are no citizen.”  Lee shifted back.  An inexperienced rookie watching might have read it as a withdrawal, that Lee was feeling defensive about the question, but Bond knew better: this was the spring, the necessary pull-back, before the jump.

Bond’s cheek stung.  As he watched, he found he could not quite remember why.

“This man,” Lee said, “his name is Bond.  James Bond.  Have you heard of him?”

The woman in the white haïk shook her head.  “From a picture,” she said.  “Nothing more.”

“He was not your target?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“So you don’t know why he was at the Berlin plant?”

“No.”

“Is that a no, you don’t know, or no, you do?”

“I do not know why he was there.”

“Of course not,” Lee said.  Her tone made it clear that she did not believe it.  “Let’s try again.  You have confessed to working for Fu Ziqiang.”

“I was under duress.  I said the first name I could think of.”

Bond huffed.  First mistake.  “Did you.”  Lee’s statement was flat.  “And where did this name come from?”

“I’ve heard it in the news.”

“On what channel did you hear it?”

The woman in the white haïk crossed her legs.  “The BBC,” she said.

Bond smiled.  “I regret to inform you,” Lee said, “That Ziqiang’s name has never been made public, though we’ve known it for years.  Try again.”

“I swear it.”

“Then swear on these,” Lee said.  From her blouse pocket she extracted a plastic bag that held two scraps of fabric and laid them on the table.  Bond could see them clearly: they were dark with bloodstains and jaggedly cut.  Bond’s mind raced: they had been taken from the corpses in the basement of the Berlin facility.  How had Lee gotten them?  Neither Trevelyan nor Bond had touched the bodies at all.

The woman in the white haïk took a deep breath, covering her face as best as she could.  “How dare you,” she said.

“Oh?  Can you not swear on them?”

“It is a sin to steal from the dead.”

“So you recognize these as belonging to your dead colleagues?” Lee asked.  She might have been inquiring about the weather.  Bond knew this tactic.  How the rest of the interrogation proceeded hinged on the woman in the white haïk’s response.  Lee was probing: if the woman in the white haïk failed to react appropriately, they would know she was the killer.  Lee and Bludger would take a more active stance, and the room would become very messy very quickly.  If she responded appropriately, Lee would continue her probing, pushing buttons until the woman snapped.  

“You see, I think you’re the guilty one,” Lee was saying.  “Someone had gone through those mens’ pockets before our boys arrived.  You had change on you, a couple of photographs, and a watch when you arrived, didn’t you?”

“Those are mine,” the woman in the white haïk said.  There was an edge to her voice now.  She comported herself well, but not well enough.   Lee continued probing.

“I’ve seen your wrists, thanks to him,” Lee said, nodding at Bludger  “They’re rather small, and that’s a man’s watch with all of the links.  It would fall off of your wrist.  You stole that watch off of one of the corpses.”

“It belongs to me,” the woman in the white haïk said.

“Did you know that the crown was loose?” Lee asked mildly.

“Of course.  The watch was a gift, and I didn’t want to break it, so I didn’t tighten it all of the way.”

Lee nodded.  She extracted the watch from the bag on the floor.  Bond watched through the window as Lee fiddled with the crown with deliberately inexpert fingers.  The woman in the white haïk’s left shoulder jerked involuntarily.  “It’s so loose,” Lee said, “that moisture can get in.  Any sort of particulate matter can get in.”  The woman in the white haïk didn’t reply.  “Now, being inquisitively minded, I decided to take a look at the insides.  What do you think I found?

“Judging by your silence, I’ll take that as an I-don’t-know-ma’am.  I can tell you: I found blood.  Not just on the inside, either: you tried to scrub this thing clean, but there are traces between the links, in the joints.  It was laying in blood, on the floor, wasn’t it?  You plucked it off of one of the dead men’s wrist, probably wiped it off on his clothes to keep your scarf from getting dirty, and pocketed it.”

The woman in the white haïk sat ramrod still.  She would be tough to break, but Bond could see in the woman’s face: she wasn’t nearly so stalwart as she had been before.

“So, you looted the bodies.  Either that, or you killed those men.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” the woman in the white haïk said quickly.

“No?” 

“No,” the woman in the white haïk added, “I did not.  My colleagues—they died by Slater’s hand.”

“You are an enemy of Annika Slater?”

“Very much so.  She killed those men.  I could not save them.”

Lee shook her head.  “Clever, to blame the dead,” she said.  “She cannot defend herself.  It’s awfully convenient.”

The woman in the white haïk said, “That fiend was not worthy of defense.”

“Fiend?”

“Yes,” the woman said.  “Oh, she was a monster.”

“Is that why you killed her?”

The woman in the white haïk yanked on her handcuffs.  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

Bond could hear Lee’s smile.  “Of course not,” she said.  Once more, she folded herself back.  The woman in the white haïk did her best to mirror the relaxed posture.  Bond could see her taking controlled breaths—seven counts in, seven counts out—but even that couldn’t keep her chest from shaking or her body from fidgeting.  She was tense and terrified.  Lee had her exactly where she wanted her.

Lee reached into the bag on the floor and pulled out a second file.

“Would you identify this man for me, please?”

The woman in the white haïk leaned forward as best as she could, handcuffed as she was.  The cuffs clinked as they were pulled taut, and Bond saw the moment the woman’s carefully monitored seven-count breathing failed.

“Alexander Trevelyan.”

Lee nodded.  “Very good.  I see you read the files you stole.  You know, he goes by Alec.”  Lee folded her arms.  “You recognized him at the Berlin factory.  Do you remember what you said?”

“No.”

“You expressed surprise that he had come.  You said that you didn’t think that he knew.”

Bond didn’t realize how close he was to the glass until his forehead knocked against it.  The panel was cold, and Bond jerked back.  Neither woman in the interrogation room so much as acknowledged the disturbance.

“That sounds right,” the woman in the white haïk said.  Her voice was faint.

Lee made a noise of assent.  “So, you were waiting for him.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Bond had watched many interrogations before.  Many interrogators favored the brute force approach: beat the quarry senseless until they’re begging for release, then allow them to speak.  The rest tended to take one of two roads.  Of those, the more common was arguably the harder to pull off well.  It involved gradually becoming more harsh, more terse, and less understanding as the interrogation wore on.  The idea was to make the prisoner feel comfortable and safe at first and to gradually stress them more and more until they snapped.  It took time, and so many people did it badly that the approach often turned into the brute force method over time.  The second road, though, the less common one, was what Lee specialized in.  Lee started soft and remained soft through most of the interrogation.  She poked and prodded, but never went too deep.  Then, all at once and without warning, she would become intensely harsh.  While the prisoner reeled, she would go back to being mild and comfortable.  This would carry on until the distressed subject, fearing the next outburst, told everything.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Lee said.

Bond frowned.  She had the perfect opening.  The woman in the white haïk could come up with no better defense for herself than “no”.  Now was the time to spring whatever trap Lee had in store.

“I am no liar,” the woman in the white haïk said.

Bond looked between the two women.  Where was the force, the power?  Lee had her cornered and she was _backing off_.

“Oh, but you are,” Lee said.  She might have been talking to a small child.  It sounded to Bond as if Lee pitied the other woman.  “You see, just after Bond and Trevelyan brought you in, we got a call.  It’s why I was so late getting to you.  Do you know who contacted us?”  The woman in the white haïk was silent.  “It was your boss,” Lee said, mild as ever.  “Anastas.”

Bond realized he was not breathing.   _Anastas_.  Lee didn’t need to use standard interrogation techniques—all she needed was that name.

“Do you know what he said?” Lee asked.

The woman in the white haïk could have screamed and Bond wouldn’t have heard; the blood in his head thumped loudly in time with his pulse.   _Anastas_.  If Anastas was involved—

“He said he had taken Q,” Lee said.  “That he’d killed him.”

“No,” the woman in the white haïk said.  Bond couldn’t move.  His hands were numb and his feet were numb and his pulse was everywhere and nowhere.

“No,” Bond said.

Lee was saying, “He had offered us a different deal, one where you got to go home and we got some other assets in return, but our negotiator pressed too hard and everything went sour.  Then we tried to ransom you for the body, but your boss said he’d dumped it in the Channel, along with the rest of our assets.  We’re looking for all of them now.”

“No,” the woman in the white haïk said.  Her voice was frayed, and her shaking hands made her cuffs vibrate.  “Flesh and blood, he wouldn’t hurt flesh and blood, he wouldn’t…”

Lee tilted her head.  Bond’s world had gone askance.  “Flesh and blood?” Lee pressed.

“No,” the woman in the white haïk was saying.  She slumped over on the table.  “No, no…”

“They don’t want you anymore,” Lee pressed on.  “They’re going to let you die here, but you can talk to me.”

The woman in the white haïk screamed.  She thrashed in place, swinging her torso as wildly as she could.  Lee remained immovable.  Bludger yawned.  Bond reached for his sidearm, only to find it missing.  Trevelyan must have grabbed it before he left.  Bond could have broken the glass then and there, could have broken into the observation room and snapped necks, but sunk back into his chair, numb.  His body could have been on fire and he would not have moved.  Q was dead.  Bond had been too late, and Q was dead.

“Tell me why Anastas planted you among Slater’s people,” Lee said.

“No,” the woman in the white haïk sobbed.

“Tell me, and I make sure the man in the observation booth doesn’t dismember you.”

The woman in the white haïk spat, “He doesn’t know, he’s got no reason to hurt me—”

“Bond has every reason to hurt you,” Lee said.  “You killed someone he cares about.”

“ _I didn’t kill anyone!_ ”

“James?”  There was pressure on Bond’s arm and a voice close to his ear: Trevelyan.  “James, I need you to stay with me.”

“He’s dead,” Bond said.  “He’s dead.”  He heard his own voice as if through water.  Vesper had drowned.  Now Q had found a similar, watery grave.  Bond wished to God that he’d drowned at Skyfall so that he could be with them.

In the interrogation room, Lee was shaking her head.  “But you did, didn’t you?  Anastas planted you in there to get our Q.  Slater wanted ransom, but Anastas wanted blood.  So he sent you.”

“No, you have it all wrong—”

“James, I need you to listen to me,” Trevelyan said.  “What Lee’s doing, it’s just a ruse—”

Lee nearly shouted, “You handed him over to your boss knowing full well he’d die, you just didn’t expect to be left behind for us to find.  Trevelyan was endgame and Q was a pawn.  You’re going to tell me why.”

“Please, please,” the woman in the white haïk was saying.  “Please, you’ve got it all wrong.  He would never hurt his own flesh and blood.  Slater wanted revenge—Trevelyan killed her men.  She thought if she brought in his brother, he’d come.”

“Elaborate,” Lee said.  Beside him, Trevelyan’s grip on Bond’s arm had faltered.  Bond leaned against Trevelyan.  He had the vague notion that the world was falling to pieces.

“It was a secret, no one was supposed to know,” the woman in the white haïk said.  “It was supposed to keep them safe, but someone told Slater and Slater used it to try to get revenge.  I was sent to find out who Anastas’ mole was—please, please, I swear, Q’s still alive.  He wouldn’t hurt flesh and blood.  He wouldn’t hurt his son.”

 


	18. Rats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started a new job! This chapter hasn't been beta'd because I didn't get myself together in time, but next week we'll be back on track :)

 

Q Division was quiet after the news went around that Bond and Trevelyan had returned with a hostage.  Ponsonby read fear and pain on the faces of each of the present quartermasters.  All assumed the obvious: Q's absence indicated his death.  The double-0s had failed to retrieve him, so all hope was lost.  Ponsonby kept her mouth shut and hoped her Zeroes had brought in a worthwhile lead.

“Let them past security,” Moneypenny ordered Argall, “and tell them to come here.  They’ll have to stay outside; we can’t take the floor off of lockdown, not until…”

Moneypenny trailed off, her face going pale.  Ponsonby saw that she was looking at her phone.  Moneypenny ran to Q's office, leaving all else aside.  Argall approached Ponsonby, and they both watched the office doors as they slammed shut.

“She barricaded R in there earlier,” Argall said, her tone conversational. She tapped her tablet with an index finger.  “Something must have happened with the consultant.”  After a moment, she asked, “What exactly does R do for MI6, anyway?”

Ponsonby remained silent, pursing her lips in thought.  The double-0s would be here soon.  She needed to speak with both of them as soon as possible.  The situation needed to be brought under control, and fast.

When it became clear that Ponsonby didn’t intend to answer her question, Argall began, “You asked me to look into—”

Moneypenny and R came back onto the main floor.  R stank like stale vomit.  She looked shell-shocked, as if she’d been under heavy emotional duress for a long period of time; Ponsonby had seen that expression on the faces of field agents following bad outcomes.

“We have a situation,” Moneypenny said.  Ponsonby looked around as she spoke.  They were drawing stares from the quartermasters, eager to hear any news.  Looking back at R, Ponsonby decided that more attention could bring nothing but trouble.  With the floor still on lockdown, though, there was little to be done but to speak softly.  “I need advice,” Moneypenny said.  She prodded R roughly.  “Tell them what you told me.”

And R spoke.  Ponsonby noted that R had a voice like gravel, likely from her earlier bout of sickness.  She told her story plainly and without exaggeration.

By the end, as Ponsonby understood it, R had made a deal with the devil.

“Those were his exact words?” Ponsonby asked.  “He said that he would be willing to return Q?”

“That’s right,” R replied.  She hung her head.  “I didn’t know what else to do.  The agents… I hope he doesn’t…”

Ponsonby said, “Anastas’ interrogation techniques are generally unsavoury.”  R squirmed even more.  “That being said, you are the one who negotiated with him.  He said no harm, correct?”

“He said he wanted his asset back,” R said.  She spoke without a stammer.  Ponsonby was starting to like R.  “He didn’t say alive or dead.”

Ponsonby nodded once.  “If we are getting Q back alive, and if it is information that Anastas is after, then it is safe to say that our men will be returned alive.  Do not worry.”  The words fell flat, even to her own ears.  She’d never been one for consoling the vulnerable.

Moneypenny asked, “What do we do?”

Argall answered in place of Ponsonby.  “It’s safe to say,” the woman said, her fingers moving rapidly over her tablet, “that the hostage Bond and Trevelyan brought in is Anastas’ ‘gift’.  If he’s going to press our boys, we ought to see what we can get out of her.”

“So, we send in Lee,” Moneypenny said.  Ponsonby thought Moneypenny’s tone was odd.  She knew the other woman wasn’t fond of Lee.  Few could appreciate her skill set.

“I will let her know,” Ponsonby said.  “Assuming you are willing to let us all out now.”

Moneypenny frowned, then glanced at R.  “Take her with you when you go.  I want her escorted home with a security contingent.”  To Argall, she added, “Let only them out.  I don’t want a stampede, and there’s too much in the air to let everyone leave.”

“Do you really think she’s in danger?” Argall asked, baffled.

Moneypenny’s eyebrows were in her hairline.  Everyone studiously avoided eye contact with the fidgeting R.  “She fielded a phone call from the world’s most dangerous arms dealer, handled a hostage crisis, and negotiated a prisoner transfer,” Moneypenny said.  “I think that qualifies as dangerous.”  She turned and prepared to move away.  “I’m going to call M,” she said.  “We need him back here now.”

Ponsonby kept her mouth shut.  A security contingent wouldn’t protect anyone from Anastas.  If he came for R—and to Ponsonby that was a real possibility—he would cut through them like a hot knife through butter.

“Come with me, now,” Ponsonby said, gesturing at R.  The consultant followed obediently, trailing Ponsonby to the doors, where Ponsonby stopped short. “Wait,” she said.

“Why?” Argall asked, her hand poised to release the lock on the doors.

“Look outside.”

Argall, who was much taller than Ponsonby, peered through the doors.  Agents 006, 007, and the woman in the white haïk stood outside, looking in.

“It’s about bloody time,” Ponsonby said, just loud enough to be heard through the security glass.

“006 and 007, reporting for duty,” Six said, “with one hostage.”  Ponsonby’s eyes flickered to Seven.  He looked worse for wear, and angry.  The situation needed to be defused before he decided to snap.  She had an armed, high-voltage taser in the front of her blazer, but then again, Seven never responded well to physical threats.

“What the hell happened?” Ponsonby asked.

Six gave a brief recap.  All the while, Ponsonby watched Seven. His grip on the woman in the white haïk was tight enough to bruise, if not break bones.  Ponsonby could see where her arm had been snapped once already.  Clearly, neither of her Zeroes could control themselves.

“I want you to hand her over to the guards downstairs,” Ponsonby instructed.  “Basement five, if you please.  Lee will head this interrogation.”  She turned her gaze on the woman in the white haïk.  For all that she trembled and shook, her eyes were resolute.  Ponsonby had more than a suspicion that some of her fear was exaggerated, but for what purpose, Ponsonby did not know.

“With all due respect,” Seven started.

“You will not finish that sentence,” Ponsonby said.  “You are compromised.  Six and Seven, I want you both to proceed to the observation booth of Interrogation Room 20.  Basement 5.  You stay there until it is over,” she said.  When neither man moved, she said, “That is an order.”

Slowly, the two shuffled away, their prisoner an uneasy weight between them.

Ponsonby waited until they were out of sight to give the signal to Argall to open the doors.  Staunchly, she stared down the corridor her agents had taken and went the opposite way.

When the doors to Q Division had shut once more, R opened her mouth.  “Are you Ponsonby?” she asked.  “Loelia Ponsonby?”

“I am,” Ponsonby said.  “And you are R, otherwise known as Dr. Anna Schirmer.  You teach at Cambridge, and you were supposed to come to me when everything went tits-up.”  R’s face turned a flaming red.  “We were never formally introduced, so I will forgive the oversight.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” R said softly.

Ponsonby led R to the elevators.  She punched the button for the fifth floor.

“We are going to see a woman named Yin Lee,” Ponsonby said.  “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It will.”

The fifth floor was sparsely staffed.  Lee had cleared out nearly everyone.  Ponsonby weaved her way through desks and computers to come to the offices at the back.

“Ma’am, I thought I was going to be escorted home.”

Ponsonby huffed once.  “Where you will be killed by either Anastas, his goons, or a nervy MI5 agent when they invariably get wind of this fiasco?  No, you are staying right here with me for the time being.”  R said nothing, and Ponsonby didn’t turn to survey her expression.  “Most people are afraid of Lee,” Ponsonby said.  “She is intimidating to the uninitiated.”

“Is this my initiation?” R asked.

Ponsonby huffed a laugh.  “We shall see.”  She led R to a conference room that was largely empty.  Inside, at the head of a long table, sat Lalit Misra, Martin Dvorak, and Yin Lee.  The three spoke quietly together, but they stopped when Ponsonby and R entered.

“Meet the clean-up crew,” Ponsonby said.  “This is consultant R.  She’s a doctorate and you will honor her with the appropriate deference.”

“Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Dvorak said amicably.  “Wish it could have been under different circumstances.

“Hello,” Misra said.

Lee frowned and said nothing.

“Hi,” R said.  That she hadn’t passed out yet raised her in Ponsonby’s estimation.  A plan was forming in her mind, and she needed R to have a good spine.

Ponsonby closed the door and motioned for R to take a seat beside Dvorak.  Carefully, the woman sat down.  Dvorak smiled and asked if she wanted a drink of water.  R shook her head no as Ponsonby pulled out a chair next to Misra.

“So,” Dvorak said, “now that we’ve assembled, we should get down to it.  Moneypenny?”

“Out,” Ponsonby said, glancing at Lee.  The stern woman nodded once.  “She is on the defensive, and so long as she stays that way, this can only go sour, particularly once M gets involved.  He knows the game, but he will throw out the baby with the bathwater to avoid a scandal.”

“What do we do?” Misra asked, craning to look at Ponsonby.

She looked to Lee.  “Six and Seven brought back a prisoner.  I want you to interrogate her, see if she has anything worthwhile that we can pull out.  We only have a few hours, so we have to make them count.”

“Very well,” Lee said.  She was watching R.  “I mean no disrespect, Doctor, but why are you here?”

Rather than allow R to answer for herself, Ponsonby briefly explained the situation: Moneypenny’s Code Black alerts, a nuclear threat in Berlin, Anastas, Q’s continued absence, and the death of Annika Slater.  “R is the last person to have contact with Anastas, and is to date the only extant affiliate of MI6 to make direct contact.”

Lee’s eyes narrowed.  “Is this true, Doctor?”

R nodded once, and her neck popped audibly.  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Why did he contact you?” Dvorak asked.

“He didn’t mean to.  I think he intended to get through to M, or at least to someone at Moneypenny’s clearance,” R said.  To Ponsonby, it sounded as if she were using those names for the first time, testing them on her tongue.  Ponsonby reminded herself that R wasn’t like Q.  Back in the forties, the position for consultant Q had been absorbed into MI6, and consultant Q had become plain Q, head of the quartermaster division.  No M since then had ever seen the need to bring any consultant R so far into the fold.  This R had likely only been to Vauxhall on a handful of occasions.  “He used one of the Team Leader’s phones, and my number was pre-programmed into it.  It was an accident.”

Dvorak nodded, but Lee looked unconvinced.

“We don’t yet have all of the pieces,” Ponsonby intervened, “which is why I want you to interrogate the hostage.”

Lee made to rise, but Ponsonby raised a hand.  “Before you go,” she said, “there’s something I want to brief all of you about.  It may be superfluous, but the next few hours are crucial, and we all need to be armed with good intel.”

Lee reseated herself at the head of the conference room.  Ponsonby spared a glance at R.  Other than her obvious profound confusion, the consultant was holding up rather well.  She would do nicely for what Ponsonby had in store.

“When I was brought on as chief of the double-0 section in 1980,” Ponsonby said, “as you all know, I established surveillance on all double-0 agents.  It was too risky to allow them to continue unchecked, and so I made sure that they were watched at all times.

“Dvorak already knows this,” Ponsonby said, “but over the subsequent years, I expanded my network to include most MI6 field agents.”

Dvorak turned to R.  “I was one of her watchers,” he said by way of explanation.  “Back in the day, nobody told me anything unless they had to.  Times change, eh?”

“The goal was to identify potential double-0 candidates and to train them quietly, outside of the programme, even before they earned their license.  MI6 on the whole was opposed to the idea of training killers right from the start, so it was imperative that the operation be quiet and contained.  With some assistance from the top, I kept it that way.

“In the late nineties, Alec Trevelyan, now our 006, caught my eye.  He was an orphan, adopted at a relatively young age by a middle-class couple, but by that time he had no living family.  He was strong, fast, and brutal.  I saw a certain moral flexibility in him, and I decided he was a perfect fit for my section.  I confronted Parry Kimberly as to why he had never been recommended for the double-0 section and was brushed off.  The old M, rest her soul, was very supportive of my operations, but she didn’t want Trevelyan anywhere near the double-0s.  She refused to so much as send him out with one of mine.  She gave no explanation and I did not ask for one.

“However, as I continued my surveillance I noticed something strange: I was not the only one watching Trevelyan.  There were people all around him at all hours in London.  There were several regulars who my team identified, and likely more who we didn’t catch.  They were not any MI6 I knew about, so I did some research.  What do you think I found?”

“Assuming this story has any relevance,” Misra said, “an affiliation with Anastas.”

Lee glowered at Misra until he sat back in his seat, a contrite look settling across his features.

“Correct,” Ponsonby said.  “At that time, Anastas was new to the circles he now runs.  He had risen to power quickly in the mid eighties, and by the nineties, he was the face of a new age for illegal arms.  There was no weaponry too advanced or too dangerous for him: he smuggled whatever he got to wherever it needed to go with minimal questions asked and no concern for the fallout.  He was, in short, incredibly dangerous.”

R asked, “Why didn’t MI6 take him down, then?”  All eyes turned to her, and she coloured.  “That is, when the old M brought me on, she had a protocol for dealing with Anastas that I remember running through with her.  No matter what, everything ran through her first.  It was unlike any of the others.”

“An astute observation,” Ponsonby said.  “She is correct.  M placed an order to subvert the usual shoot-on-sight command.  Instead, operatives who made contact with Anastas were to report directly to her and to follow a chain of command from there.”  Ponsonby coughed lightly.  “Since you mentioned it, do you know when that addendum was dated?”

R shook her head.  “I read the file when I was brought on as a consultant,” she said.  “I think I got the abridged version.”

Misra smiled thinly.  “No, we simply didn’t have any information.”

“You are incorrect,” Ponsonby said.  “We did.  The addendum was dated 1984.”

“That’s before Anastas came to power,” Lee said.  Ponsonby watched Lee’s face as confusion, then a slowly growing realization spread across her features.

“But he was getting there,” Ponsonby said.  “By the time I had started digging, Anastas was doing nothing to harm England.  In fact, he appeared to be studiously avoiding the British Isles, even while he wreaked havoc everywhere else.  ‘Why?’ I asked myself, and a solution presented itself to me: because he had agreed not to.”

“You’re joking,” Dvorak said.

“I do not joke,” Ponsonby said.  “It was Anastas’ people around Trevelyan that decided the matter for me,” Ponsonby said.  “M’s direct orders were not made out of some foolish whim.  We have documented evidence that Anastas went to Marseilles in 1984 in early spring.  His trip coincided with M’s attendance at a conference, also in Marseilles.  I believe they met and discussed terms.”

“You think they struck a Mansfield Agreement,” Lee said.

“What’s a Mansfield Agreement?” R asked.

“It’s a gentleman’s agreement,” Dvorak said, “named after the first director of the SIS.  It refers to an agreement made between our service and outside parties, not through legal contractual obligations, but through verbal accords or else documents that were subsequently destroyed to keep knowledge of their existence outside of the public domain.”

Ponsonby said, “Anastas was growing powerful and fast.  A lone man would have nothing to fear and nothing to gain by contacting MI6.  If, however, he had a son, let’s say a little boy…  He would need protection.  We know that Anastas’ wife was murdered earlier that very year.  He would be anxious.  Worried to the point of action.”

“You think Anastas struck a deal with M for protection for his son,” Lee said.

Ponsonby smiled.  “I more than think it.  I know it.  Anastas’ men around Trevelyan coupled with M’s paranoia about the man, to say nothing of our current predicament, confirms it.”

“Why wouldn’t M want Trevelyan as a double-0, then?”

Ponsonby said, “Anastas has a violent streak as wide as the Channel.  If Trevelyan were to discover his family ties, and if he were to find himself amenable to his father’s methods, MI6 would have trained the instrument of its own destruction.”

“But Trevelyan is a double-0,” R said.  “M changed her mind.”

Ponsonby nodded.  “I can be persuasive when I need to be,” she said.  “M and I spoke at length.  I persevered.”

Silence fell across the room.  Ponsonby looked from R, to Dvorak, to Lee, and last, to Misra, who appeared lost in thought.

“You think Slater kidnapped Q to get to Trevelyan,” Misra said finally, “and that Anastas intervened because his son was in danger.”

“That is the gist of it, yes.”

“Why Q?  Why not someone Trevelyan’s closer to?”

Ponsonby locked eyes with Lee.  “That’s what we need to find out,” she said.  “That is why you are going to interrogate this woman and find out what she knows.  She was at the facility, working for Slater.”

“What to you make of her claim?” Dvorak asked.  “You told us she said she was working for Fu Ziqiang.”

“Fu Ziqiang runs in the same circles as Anastas,” Ponsonby said, “and R can confirm that she was on the ground in Berlin.”

R nodded.  “When my teams checked in with me, one of them sighted her heading back to a small airfield,” she said.  “She was there and well-guarded.”

“So you think the woman told the truth?” Dvorak asked.

Ponsonby grimaced.  “I think she is a born liar.  She pulled out Fu Ziqiang’s name because she needed a way to get into custody without naming her own boss.”

“You think she wants to be here,” Lee stated.

“I saw her earlier,” Ponsonby said.  “She was afraid, but not of my Zeroes.”

Lee stood.  “Thank you,” she said.  “I believe this information will prove most useful.”  She moved to the door to the hall and left without another word.

Dvorak breathed loudly.  “Well, that’s that,” he said.  “She’s usually more uptight, not less,” he said to R.  To Ponsonby, he added, “Although, I have to hand it to you, that was cold.”

“How do you mean?” Ponsonby asked.  She knew full well what Dvorak was gesturing at, but if he were going to make sure sweeping statements, Ponsonby thought he ought to make them outright.

“You’ve been sitting on that intelligence for quite some time, now,” Dvorak said, sitting back.  “Why share it now?”

Ponsonby took a deep breath.  “When M founded the position all those years ago, I worked hard convincing her that Lee was the best fit for Chief of International Relations,” she said.  “M did not want to move her out of Enforcement and International Support, and she was only amenable to the idea when not one but two heads,” she said, gesturing to Dvorak and Misra, “were promoted to fill the gap she left.  Had she known then what I have just revealed, what would she have done?”

“She would have used that information,” Misra said.  “She would have hunted Anastas.”

“And her career would have sunk,” Ponsonby said.  “M would have buried her somewhere not even her ghost could find her.  I made the decision to keep the information to myself in the event that Anastas came calling.  The only ones to get hurt in the inevitable public backlash would have been M and I.”

Dvorak relaxed in his seat, content with Ponsonby’s answer, but Misra eyed her sharply.  “What are you planning?” he asked.

“Pardon me?”

“Why share this now?” he asked.  “You have given an answer, true, but I wonder if it’s the real one.”

Ponsonby smiled once and looked at R.  “Anastas is going to come calling sooner rather than later,” she said.  “I trust Lee now to use this information wisely.”

“Did you not trust her before?” Misra asked.

Ponsonby did not answer.  She stood, and motioned for R to do the same.  “Come,” she said.  “Soon, we will know what needs to be done.”

* * *

Ponsonby sat back at her desk and shut her eyes.  In her left ear, the woman in the white haïk hysterically denied that Q was dead on the grounds that Anastas wouldn’t kill his own son—Q being his son.  Ponsonby was rapidly beginning to believe her.  As Lee worked to get the interrogation back under control, she wondered how her Zeroes were holding up in the interrogation booth.  Seven was likely ready to attempt homicide.  Six was likely in a state of shock.  She thought about it again.  In retrospect, they were both probably keen on homicide.  Ponsonby’s best laid plans were spinning out of control.

Sitting forward, Ponsonby glanced dolefully at the clock.  One o’clock in the morning was no time for a woman of her respectable age to be awake, and yet, here she was.  She had had R escorted home after leaving Lee’s conference room.  Ponsonby felt she had a better grasp of the girl’s character now, and soon she’d have a good guard—Ponsonby fully intended to replace the goons Moneypenny had deigned to send after her with someone better suited to the task.  With the known quantity of the consultant, Ponsonby had thought that she had all of the pieces lined up.

And then the woman in the white haïk had thrown Q into the mix.  Slater hadn’t grabbed Q on accident thinking he was Six’s boyfriend; she’d known what MI6 hadn’t: that Anastas had not one but two children in England.  M had to have known: it explained Q’s rapid recruitment and promotion.  Ponsonby cursed M.  The old bat did like to keep her secrets.  It was a shame they couldn’t all be buried with her.

Ponsonby listened as Lee stepped outside of the interrogation room.  There was an audible scuffle, and Lee ordered someone to stand down.  Ponsonby assumed it was Seven.

“Now what?” Lee asked.  Ponsonby didn’t need to be asked twice to know the question was meant for her.

“Talk to Seven.  He cares about the quartermaster, for whatever that’s worth.  Make sure he does not kill your prisoner.”

“Easier said than done,” Lee said.  Her voice was tight over the comm line.

“Just stay close to Six and Seven both,” Ponsonby ordered.  “And tell me when you are out of range of eavesdroppers.  We need a plan and we need it now.”

“Right,” Lee said.

Ponsonby rubbed her face, then stood.  She took the lifts down to Q Division, where Argall was waiting.

“Moneypenny’s gone,” Argall said.  “Thank the Lord for small miracles.”

“This is not a miracle, this is a crisis.  Speak, and do it fast.”

Argall nodded.  “See this?” she asked, swiping across her tablet to start a video.  Ponsonby squinted to make out the dark shapes moving across the screen in the bright room.  “Here,” Argall said, pausing it.  She tapped the left side of the screen, and the picture brightened.  One of the janitors sitting in Q’s chair in his office, came into view.  “This is what I wanted to show you earlier.

“When was this taken?” Ponsonby asked.

“The last time all double-0 files were accessed simultaneously,” Argall said.  “Here’s your leak, or the most likely candidate.  He tried to overwrite the access files with blanks, but as you can see, he was working in Q’s office.  Q set up his systems so that overwrites are impossible without a certain set of commands.  The most interesting thing, though?  I pulled up the records.  The server logged Q as the administrator accessor.”

“So he is good,” Ponsonby said.

Argall nodded.  “His supervisors have praised him for his memorization skills.  It’s not too far of a stretch to say that he memorized Q’s keystrokes and admin password.  Still, our intruder used Q’s identity so as not to raise red flags when accessing the system, but he didn’t think to disable any of Q’s security protocols.  I’ll up security right away if you think it’s necessary.”

“No,” Ponsonby said.  “There won’t be a need for that.  This one’s a special case, and Q will want to see this when he gets back.”  Ponsonby ignored the question hanging on Argall’s lips.  “Call Martin Dvorak, he will want to know about this.  Do you have a name for our janitor?”

After a beat, Argall said, “Maurice Tidings.  He was hired four years ago.”

Ponsonby headed for one of the empty Q Division stations.  At some point, Moneypenny had had Argall release the security lock on the doors.  Most employees had gone home, but a few, all of whom sported bruise-coloured bags under their eyes, remained behind to manage the station.

She sat down at a desk and logged in.  She accessed Maurice’s files, only to discover what she already expected: no reprimands, no open tickets to suggest poor conduct, nothing but a clean bill and hearty recommendations from his supervisors.  Ponsonby closed his profile and opened Q’s logs from 2011.

The files were endless, though he had only been Quartermaster for one year to date.  Ponsonby filtered the files for mentions of Bahrain and 0014.  She narrowed it to a scant few pages of hits, then she began reading.  

Q had worked backend for Bahrain from the beginning.  There were transcripts of conversations between him and 0014, information reports, armament replacement forms, the works.  Ponsonby scanned those without interest.  Those were obviously genuine articles.  She was looking for something out of place.

She found it mid way through the thirtieth page.  Q had logged in at three o’clock in the morning just before the mission went pear-shaped and had accessed data on 0014, the political climate in Bahrain, and several pages of information regarding Laurentin Adam and Annika Slater.  Ponsonby smiled.  This information was too basic for Q to check at some unholy hour, even if the man rarely slept or went home.

“Argall,” she called.  The tall woman came up behind Ponsonby and leaned over her shoulder.  “Pull me up whatever video we have from this access time.”

“Ma’am,” Argall said.  In moments, she had footage.  “Same janitor, same spot,” she said.  “What does that mean?”

“Do you remember what happened in Bahrain?” Ponsonby asked.

“Sure,” Argall said.  “We went through hell.”

Ponsonby tapped the janitor’s face on the screen.  “This one hurt my boys,” she said.  “Nearly killed Fourteen.  Probably the reason Seven was hitting his head against a brick wall in Siberia.  We have a rat on the ship.”

"That's not all," Argall said.  Ponsonby refused to rise to the bait.  Argall knew how to hold her grudges.   “You told Moneypenny—”

Ponsonby huffed.  “You should learn now,” she said, “that we are in the business of secrets, both keeping them and discovering them.  Telling everyone every little thought that crosses your mind is disastrous.”

“What do we do?”

“Flush our rat out,” Ponsonby said.  She headed to Q’s office.  “If Moneypenny or Mallory comes here, I am elsewhere.”

“Ma’am,” Argall said.  Ponsonby smiled and nodded.  She felt the heavy weight of the taser in her blazer, then thought better of it.  Argall was useful, and she sincerely wanted to help.  There was no sense in incapacitating a perfectly good assistant, even if it would make a cleaner getaway.

With the door locked behind her, Ponsonby reactivated her comm line to Lee.

“Yin?” Ponsonby asked.

“Tell me you’ve got a plan, because I’ve got a black eye and not much else to show for this,” Lee gritted.  There was a shout, and Lee muttered something in Cantonese Ponsonby couldn’t catch.  Ponsonby heard a thump and a masculine groan.

“I found the rat who sunk Bahrain,” Ponsonby said.  “I am going to call Fourteen back.”

“Tell me how this helps?”

“Because the informant was masquerading as Q,” Ponsonby said.  “He cannot be one of Anastas’ because he would not frame his own son.  You know how this looks: Q, the son of one of the most dangerous men alive, conspiring to botch double-0 missions?”

“ _Diu_ ,” Lee cursed.  “Q will be dead the moment he gets off that plane if M has his way.”

“What was that?” Ponsonby heard across the line.  It sounded like Seven.

“Keep them in one place,” Ponsonby ordered, “and make them listen in.  I have a plan, and I need their full cooperation.”

Over the comm line, Ponsonby heard Lee beat Six and Seven into submission before the line was amplified.  Ponsonby explained as quickly and succinctly as she could, glancing at the door all the while.

When she was done relaying her thoughts and Seven had made a few suggestions of his own, Ponsonby crushed the earwig and pocketed its remains.  Then, she took her own mobile and called Fourteen.

“Hello,” she said, knowing he recognized the number.  “Wherever you are in the operation, finish it.  I need you back here.  I found the rat that nearly had your hide, and I want you to wrap it up.  Then, I have another job for you.”

Fourteen didn’t need to be told anything twice.


	19. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Anastas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the lovely beta work!

Q hated planes.

Q really, _really_ hated planes.

He had been on a grand total of four planes in his life.  Those four planes, piloted and crewed by four different sets of people flying to and from different destinations (Q had tried to find any link between them, anything at all, that would mean that at least _some_ planes were safe—he had failed) had ruined flying for life.

As he came around and found himself being marched towards several unmarked aircraft of various sizes, his ever-so-helpful mind conjured each of those planes.  The sudden adrenaline rush from becoming conscious in an unknown location surrounded by armed thugs speaking dialects of languages Q could only guess at didn’t help, either.  His memories were full of holes.  He remembered being pushed into the back of a van just outside of a factory building.  He’d been waiting for Bond, but no one had showed up to rescue him.  At some point, someone had gotten in beside him and pressed a cloth over his face.  Q had faded away into sleep.  He dimly remembered waking up once, only to be knocked out again.  There were no needles, nothing invasive: just a gentle sedative, something like chloroform but long-lasting and far more potent.  Now, he was being marched out of the car.  One of his legs was asleep and wasn’t working properly.  The sun was set and the air was chill.  He’d been out for hours, maybe even a day.  Something stunk of petrol and almonds.  Q suspected it was him.  

The men holding Q upright pulled him up the short flight of stairs and into the nearest plane, the smallest one he could see.  There were men unloading cargo from its belly, heavy boxes by the looks of them.  It was a jet, really, Q thought, though his thoughts were more of a jumble than the usual elegant cascade.  He felt like his synapses had been rewired.  Inside, the jet had tables in between seats, and the seats faced each other rather than straight forward.  Q’s guard dumped him into one of the seats in the middle, facing the front of the plane.  Without their support, Q’s head lolled over to one side, but one of the guards quickly maneuvered him such that his head didn’t hit the wall.  With the same deft movements, the guard buckled Q into the seat.

“Thanks,” Q said.  Why had he spoken?  He was being kidnapped, for pity’s sake.  Kidnapped _again_.

“Du rien,” the guard said.  A Frenchman?  Q had thought everyone was speaking dialects of Russian, but then again, his head was so foggy he didn’t trust himself to discern one from the other.  Q wanted to question the man further, but the guard had moved to the front of the jet with his companion, and Q wasn’t in any fit state to talk.  He sagged against the seats, which were soft and cold.  They reminded Q of his foster mother’s old couch.  The table in front of him was bolted to the floor of the plane. Q rested his feet against the base of it and waited for his head to clear up before they drugged him again.  Every passing second granted him a greater degree of clarity than before.  They would drug him again, if only to keep him unaware of their destination.  Q couldn’t allow that.  He needed to know so that when he contacted MI6 personally they could find him, since it seemed like they couldn’t find him by themselves.

Assuming, of course, MI6 meant to search for him at all.  Q’s stomach hit his knees.  He wasn’t considering that.  He was important, an asset.  They’d abandon others—Q had been involved in the severance of low-priority field agents before—but not him.  Not Q.

Bond wouldn’t stand by for that.

Five more men—no, four men and one woman—boarded the jet.  Three of the men and the woman took seats on the far side of the plane.  The man who they’d escorted on came to sit directly in front of Q.

“Hello,” the man in front of Q said.  He accented the second syllable as if he were not sure he was pronouncing the word correctly.  “You are Colby Elwes.”

Q sat up a little straighter but kept his mouth clamped shut.  That identity didn’t exist any more.  He felt his head ringing.  He could have cried.

“My name is Anastasius Argyeris.  You know me as Anastas, yes?”

Yes, Q did know him as Anastas.  The man reached across the table, and Q shrunk away.  Belatedly, he realized that Anastas intended for them to shake hands.  If he didn’t and managed to piss him off, Q wasn’t sure he’d survive too much longer.  Carefully, unsure if he would still have an arm at the end, Q reached to grab the hand.  Anastas grinned widely.  His teeth were very straight.  Q could not bring himself to speak.  His pulse rang in his ears; he was sure it was well above 120 beats per minute.

“There is no need to worry,” Anastas said.  He placed Q’s limp hand on the table and patted it.  There was none of Slater’s menace there.  Instead, Q sensed that Anastas was working very hard at something akin to a harmless paternalism.  Q didn’t know what he should be on guard against, but his mind raced with possibilities regardless.  He swallowed back bile.  “You are safe now.  We are going to take you home.”

Q had enough questions to fill the Domesday Book twice over, but even had his tongue been willing to cooperate, the circumstances were not.  He had to resist the urge to throw up as a roar filled his ears.  Q hadn’t been paying attention: the two guards had disappeared into the cockpit.  They were preparing to take off.

“My sources say you dislike flying,” Anastas said, still holding Q’s hand.  Q felt his palms go slick with sweat against the metal table.  His pulse was rising.  He felt lightheaded, and he gasped for air.  Anastas squeezed his hand.  “They told me about the accidents.  We shall have none today.”

In spite of the danger of doing so, Q screwed his eyes shut and resumed his mantra in his head.  Bond would come.  He’d boarded planes like this before on missions.  And if Bond didn’t come, Moneypenny would come, wouldn’t she?  Even though she was out of fieldwork, she liked Q.  She’d come for him.  Someone would come.  Q wouldn’t be left alone like this.

The most highly sought-after arms dealer in the world held Q’s hand as they reached cruising altitude and didn’t let go, even after Q’s breathing evened. Q did not speak.  He had not been drugged again.  They were letting him wake up all of the way.  He had a feeling that he had grossly misread the situation, but he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Q asked the obvious question: “What are you looking for?”  He wished he could have said it without the breathlessness, but beggars aren’t choosers.

Anastas’s smile refused to diminish.  “I already found it,” he said.  “Your friends were too slow, so I intervened.  I did not intend for things to go so far.”  Q did not speak.  His heart fluttered in his chest as he waited for the plane to drop out of the sky.  Anything he said would reveal his hand, assuming Anastas didn’t already know it.  “I am given to understand that your foster parents are dead.  Am I correct?”

Q’s heart began to thud against his rib cage once more.  He was sure Anastas could hear it, it pounded so quickly and so hard.  He felt there was too little oxygen in the plane even to speak.  Many of the interrogation techniques Q had studied started like this: begin by establishing identity.  Engrain upon their minds that you, as the interrogator, know who they are.  Talk about things no one else ought to know.  Then, when they’re well and truly rattled, begin the actual interrogation.  Q glanced around the plane.  They would hang him out the door, he realized.  His pulse went up again, and he couldn’t distinguish one heartbeat from the next.  He didn’t know how to hold up under interrogations.  Bond had never taught him.  Where was Bond?

Maybe there was a way to avoid that, Q reasoned, thinking fast.  This didn’t have to get ugly.  “No,” Q said, cursing that he hadn’t had his wits about him when Anastas had brought up his name.  “I was never adopted.  I have no foster parents.  My parents are very much alive.”

Anastas’s laugh came from deep in his belly.  “Of course they are,” he said, patting Q’s hand.  “And I suppose you’re preparing to tell me that they live in Cambridge with a dog named Riley.”  Anastas rolled his r’s.  His accent was thick, but Q could understand him well enough.  He was sweating all over now, and Anastas was watching him carefully.  “Your mother’s name would be Ellen and your father’s name would be George?  And then you’d say that you didn’t know who Colby Elwes was, that your name was Rufus Fairbright?”  Anastas laughed again, but there was no real humour to it.  “No, no, my boy.  There’s no need for this.”

Q tried to think how Bond might have handled this.  The most important thing would be determining the limit of Anastas’ knowledge. “How did you know that?” Q asked.  It took him two tries to get the sentence out.

Anastas nodded once.  “I know much about you.  More, I think, than you do.”

Q might have been ill right then and there, but Anastas squeezed his hand again and talked.  Q had listened to many interrogations over comm lines before.  He was used to the violence, the soft words spoken with nothing but malice—but this, this was something else altogether.  Anastas spoke slowly throughout, keeping a hold on Q all throughout.  Q noticed that Anastas kept his index finger over Q’s pulse.  He knew he was calming Q, yet he didn’t stop speaking.  In fact, Anastas seemed to grow more relaxed as Q did.

“Your first word was ‘Mama’,” Anastas said.  “Your mother was so proud.  You were born the twenty-fourth of October, in 1978.  You boarded at St. Paul’s, in London.  You astounded your professors academically.  You participated in theatre, but you spent most of your free time teaching yourself computer science and playing the piano.  Socially, you had few friends.  Many of your instructors were concerned, but those friends you had you kept, and so they did not intervene.

“You built your first computer when you were sixteen.  You were sad because it only ran for five minutes at a time, and you knew of a boy in Cardiff who had made his at age nine and had no such difficulties.  So you built another, and another, and another.  You ran through fourteen marks of the same model before you began branching out into other areas of programming.

“You went on to earn your PhD from Cambridge.  Your thesis, “Integrated real-time interfaces: a parameterized cloud-based data center and hypervisor species” revolutionized data processing and control algorithms.

“M, rest her soul, recruited you the day after they handed you your degree.  She saw in you a rare talent—the ability to see through the invisible shields that protect nations today in the form of firewalls, data screens, and CCTV.  She came to you personally, together with her Chief of Staff, to give you a job in the then-Q-Branch.

“You rose to the rank of Q in four years, though the Silva Incident sped your promotion.  The old Q was a good man.  I wish we could have met under different circumstances, he and I.  I know that an oversight on your part freed Silva, but that you made up for it by preventing M’s assassination at the Old Bailey and by leading Silva into Scotland, where one of your agents put him down.

“And I know,” Anastas finished, “that shortly after the death of M and the destruction of the residence known as Skyfall Lodge, you entered into a relationship with a very dangerous man.”  Anastas pursed his lips.  “Commander James Bond.”

Q had sat in silence while Anastas spoke, and he saw no reason to speak now.  His pulse had slowed to a normal rate, though he couldn’t identify why.  He should have been sweating bullets with all Anastas knew, but the way in which the other man spoke gave Q pause.  He didn’t know what it all meant.  Anastas had to have been watching him since he was a baby, apparently, but how and why?  He knew things he couldn’t possibly know without ears inside MI6.  Again, how, and who could have reported that much?  Many of his details were restricted Q Division intelligence.  Q didn’t know of anyone who could possibly connected back to Anastas.  Some in the Division had resented his rise to power, but not enough for this.

“He is a good man, if a dangerous one,” Anastas said finally. “I am happy for you.”

“What do you want?” Q asked again.  He found he was more curious than frightened.

“I wished to ensure your safety,” Anastas said.  Q believed him.  “Now, I have.”  Anastas watched him carefully.  Q risked a glance to the other half of the plane.  Those who had escorted Anastas on board were pointedly looking out the windows.  “Tell me, how much did M tell you?”

Q frowned.  That was a highly loaded question.  How much did M tell him about what?

“No need for frowns,” Anastas said.  Q’s eyes returned to the man in front of him.  The mention of M reminded Q who he was dealing with: an international arms dealer, the most sought after of them all; a man accused of murder, theft, conspiracy to employ nuclear deterrents to keep his associates safe, and too many other crimes to list.  “What did M tell you about me?”

“You’re one of MI6’s most wanted,” Q said lamely.

Anastas laughed.  “You are not wrong,” Anastas said.  “And yet they have never apprehended me.  Do you know why?”

“There are strict orders that any news of you goes straight to M.  You’ve been careful.”

Anastas’s smile was uncanny.  “I have, but not in the manner in which you believe.”  Q did not respond.  “I met with M, in 1978,” Anastas said.  “She was the head of MI6 even then, did you know?  We were both so young.

“It was winter in Berlin, but it felt like spring to me, after so long in Moscow.  We met in the old British district.  I was only beginning to gain my name, and she had just become M.  We were both new, both eager to prove ourselves, but I needed a service from her, something only she could provide.”

“What was that?” Q asked in spite of himself.  He felt _curious_.

“Protection,” Anastas said.  “Not for me, but for my family.  You see, when I rose to power, to the position that I hold today, I made many enemies.  There were those who I had not been so kind to over the years who wished to see me suffer.  They could not touch me, but my family—I could not risk it.  My wife had been killed.  I needed action.”

Q pursed his lips.  “So you went to M, looking to make a deal.”

“And a deal we made,” Anastas agreed.  “She would make sure my family was protected.  In return, I would act as a deterrent.”  Q tilted his head, uncomprehending.  “The world was a dangerous place, even in 1978,” Anastas continued.  “The Russians wanted blood.  The people were starving, and though most blamed America and hated their capitalist regime, others yet turned to England.

“M, she was the smartest woman I have had the pleasure of meeting,” Anastas said.  “She knew that, if I were recruited, all of my enemies would become the enemies of MI6.  That was too risky.  There would be too much suffering.  But what I offered was too great of an opportunity for her to pass.  M agreed that she would take care of my family and that I could continue to do my business, so long as I prevented the enemies of MI6 from taking action.”

Q stilled.  “So that is precisely what I did,” Anastas said.  “I went about my business and M went about hers, but when I caught news of, say, a bomb destined for London, for example, I did what I could to prevent it.”

“M had a deal,” Q said, his mouth dry, “with you.”

“Yes.”

Q huffed a laugh.  He shook his head and said, “No.”

“No?”

“You are the most sought-after arms dealers in the world,” Q said.  He could not look at the man before him, the one who held his hand and who looked at Q with such concern.  Q feared it might be sincere.  “M would never cut a deal with you.”

“And why not?”

Q pulled his arm away from Anastas.  He cradled it in his lap, marveling that he still had all of his fingers.  “Because M never compromised,” Q said.  “Not when there was a job to do.”

“On the contrary,” Anastas rumbled, “that was the only time she compromised.”  Q flinched but did not look up.  When Anastas spoke again, his tone was softer, gentler.  “Her goal, like mine, was to get the job done, yes.  To win at all costs.”  Anastas watched Q with that same sickly concern, as if Q were something precious and naive—something to be protected.  Q squirmed under the gaze.  “She and I shared that trait.  She knew when to fight and when to sue for peace.  She cared little about others, so long as her own were protected.  In that, we were the same.”

“You are a liar,” Q said.

Anastas was silent for a long time.  The silence stretched long enough that Q risked a glance across the table.

Anastas appeared to have been struck.  He looked—Q would have considered it a look of supreme sadness and betrayal, had he not known better.  The man was a monster who killed for a living.

Then again, that’s what Bond did.

Q silenced the little voice at the back of his head.  There was no comparison.

“I am no liar,” Anastas said quietly, “and I intend to prove it to you.”

“Really.”

“Yes, indeed,” Anastas said.  He motioned once with his hands, and one of the men handed him a folder.  “I trust you know this man?” Anastas asked, opening the file to the first page.

Q craned his head slightly to better see.  He was blond, with a rectangular face and rather gruesome-looking scars on the right side of his face.  Q recognized Trevelyan but hesitated before responding: it was clear that Anastas already knew most of the ins and outs of MI6, but Q was unsure if the double-0 section remained unknown.

“No,” he said.  “I’ve never seen that man before.”

Anastas squinted at him.  Q resisted the urge to swallow.  It was the truth.  He had never personally outfitted Trevelyan, and so he had never seen the man face-to-face.

“Incredible,” Anastas said.  “And here I thought it would be an exaggeration.”

“Pardon me?” Q asked.

Rather than answer, Anastas said, “This man is an employee, if you will, of your MI6.  Before you awoke, I spoke with one of your associates—a woman who goes by the letter R,” Anastas said.  “She was very concerned about you.  She and I came to an agreement.  I said I would be willing to return you.”  Q felt his pulse in all of his limbs.  “What I failed to mention,” Anastas said, “was whether or not you would go.”

“Do you intend to go against your word?” Q asked.

Anastas shook his head.  “No,” he said, “I am willing to allow you to leave.  But, you must want to leave.”

Q huffed a laugh.  “And why would I want to stay?”

Anastas eyed Q critically.  “If you choose to leave,” he said, “I will release you into this man’s custody.”  Anastas tapped Trevelyan’s picture.  “However, I doubt even he can protect you from what is to come.”

“Are you threatening me?” Q asked.

Anastas’s grip on the table tightened.  “I would never,” he said.  Q believed him, if only because the man appeared ready to rise out of his chair in rage at the suggestion.  After a moment, Anastas breathed out, relaxing.  Q took that moment to glance across the cabin.  All four men had frozen, their hands tightening around their seat rests.  Only the woman remained at ease.  Q’s gaze flickered back and forth.

“Forgive me,” Anastas said.  “There have been many to accuse me of violence against you this day.  Know that I would never harm you.”

Q felt he didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had to ask.  “Why?”

“The same reason your MI6 will do you harm,” Anastas said.  “Because, like him before you,” he said, tapping Trevelyan’s photograph, “you are my son.”


	20. Handover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory needs some sleep, and several planes touch down in the UK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to mistflyer1102 for the awesome beta work!

Mallory’s worst day ever would not relent.

He had spent the better part of the day and night briefing the Prime Minister, who periodically interrupted him to ask, quite plainly, wouldn’t it just be easier to let them kill Q and be done with it?  To quote the Minister herself, wouldn’t that avoid all of “this nuclear nonsense?”

Mallory’s headache vibrated out of his skull.  They’d called for a break just around one o’clock in the morning, but the Prime Minister apparently did not like to sleep, and so they would be going back at it in the next quarter hour.  Tanner had been nearly beside himself.  Hearing from Moneypenny was almost like a breath of fresh air.

“We have a problem,” she said through the line.  Mallory took a long drag on his cigar where he stood at a window near the back of the quarters and breathed deeply.  He glanced at Tanner, who had taken over an armchair in the lounge, then looked back to the window.

“This isn’t what I want to hear,” he said.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, “but it can’t wait.  Bond and Trevelyan returned about two hours ago with a hostage, no Q.  Lee took the hostage to interrogation.  Apparently Anastas killed Slater and took Q before either double-0 could get there because Q’s his son.”

Mallory shut his eyes.  The desire to go to sleep was nearly overwhelming.  “Bollocks,” he said softly, glancing around.  A heavyset woman with a dustpan intent on cleaning around him shook her head.  He made a face in return, perfectly aware of how childish the gesture was.  He was beyond dignity.  “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

Moneypenny made a sound on the other end of the line, and Mallory checked the floor to make sure he wasn’t getting ash all over the floorboards.  “I’m afraid the story checks out,” Moneypenny said.  “We have confirmation Q is with Anastas at this very moment, and Anastas wasn’t keen on giving him back.”

“How do we know this?”

Mallory could hear Moneypenny’s wince as she said, “Anastas kidnapped one of consultant R’s teams on his way out of Berlin.  He used the leader’s mobile and got through to R.”  There was a pause, and Moneypenny added, “R negotiated a prisoner transfer.”

Mallory’s headache was getting worse.  Tanner was watching him, waiting for the end of the call.  “And you let her do this?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, sir,” Moneypenny said.  “It won’t happen again.”

Mallory shut his eyes.  He would have given his right arm for a scotch.  “Let’s hope it doesn’t,” he said, “because if arms dealers begin calling into our headquarters regularly, I fear we shall both be out of a job.  Tell me you have good news.”  Tanner shifted behind him, and Mallory squeezed his eyes tighter.

“Of a sort.  R’s negotiation worked.  We have confirmed sightings of several planes headed for London and verbal agreement that the kidnapped team will be returned in exchange for our current hostage.”

“And Q?”

Moneypenny paused.  “Unclear, sir.  R said that Anastas’ exact wording was that he would be ‘willing’ to let Q go.”

“So it could go either way.  Has Bond been briefed?”

“In a manner of speaking.  Lee was having a spot of trouble during her interrogation and decided to rile the prisoner by claiming that Q was dead.  Bond reacted badly.”

Mallory nearly choked on smoke and coughed to try to clear his lungs.  “Tell me you have him contained.”

“Both Bond and Trevelyan became violent.  Lee subdued both, and they’re in a holding cell.”

“Together?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Separate them,” Mallory ordered.  “At once.  We don’t need to brew a bomb in the basement when they appear to be raining on us all at once.”

“Lee’s orders, sir,” Moneypenny said.  “Ponsonby backed her up.  They were adamant.”

Mallory clutched his cigar a bit tighter than necessary.  Tanner and the housekeeper were watching him with something akin to worry now.  He could do nothing about Tanner, but Mallory tried to shoo the housekeeper away with a wave of his hand.  She would not be moved.

“Understood,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“That’s all I have for now,” Moneypenny said.  “I sent R home with a few guards just in case this all goes sour.  Everyone else is still on high alert, waiting for Anastas to arrive.”

Mallory frowned.  “I will return as soon as I can.  In the meantime, you are in charge.  I’m giving you executive power to override Ponsonby’s orders.  Put Bond and Trevelyan in separate cells, and make sure to double whatever cover’s already down there.  Ponsonby’s always been soft on her section, and Lee’s always let Ponsonby do what she wants.  I won’t have any more trouble than we already have.  If Q is part of the prisoner transfer, I want him interrogated immediately.  Call it what you want: hearing, debriefing, what have you.  Keep him sedate, calm, and separate from any quartermasters or double-0s.”

“Do you want Lee to interrogate?” Moneypenny asked.

“No,” Mallory said.  “Anyone but Lee.  Are we clear on this?”

“Of course,” Moneypenny said.

There was a click, and Moneypenny was gone.

Mallory finished his cigar in relative silence.  A clock somewhere in the room ticked irregularly.  Mallory felt sticky and sweaty.  His suit had lost its clean, pressed lines throughout the day, and all of the sitting and arguing had put creases in his pants and his jacket.  His tie felt too tight, and his shoes grabbed at his feet.

The housekeeper was still watching him.

“Would you be a dear,” Mallory said, “and find me Ms. Langley and Mr. Kimberly.”

The housekeeper made a face.  “I’m not your housekeeper,” she grumbled, leaving the room.

* * *

Whether by the housekeeper’s good graces or sheer random chance, Megan Langley found Mallory and Tanner first.  Langley was tiny and crisp, with a curved nose and muscular arms.  When Mallory had first been introduced to her, her androgyny had thrown him, and he’d nearly referred to her as a man.  

“Morning,” she said.

“Indeed,” Mallory said.  “Where’s Kimberly?”

“The loo,” Langley said.  She yawned.  “Is it time for a conference?”

Mallory nodded and spared a glance at Tanner. “Yes,” he said.  “We need to act quickly.”

Langley’s smile was stinging.  “Don’t we always?”

Kimberly sauntered into the room.  His pot belly hung over his belt.  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“All of you, here, now,” Mallory said.  Kimberly lumbered closer as Mallory related what Moneypenny had told him.

“Do you believe her?” Langley asked.  She had turned her unsettling, beady eyes on him.

“We must,” Mallory said.  “Opinions on moving forward, both of you.”

Langley spoke up first.  “Isn’t it obvious?” she demanded.  “We run a clean sweep protocol on Trevelyan and Q.  The double-0 section has always had its loose cannons, but a madman with Anastas as a relative?  We’re asking for treason in the worst way if we keep him.  And Q?  The brat who let Silva out of his cage then covered up for it with an off-the-books scheme he cooked up with Bond?  No, we shouldn’t risk our livelihoods for those two, not considering the circumstances.”

“You would remove them both?” Tanner asked.

Langley nodded.  “It’s clean and efficacious.”

“And Bond?” Mallory asked.

“If necessary, sweep him, too,” Langley said.  “He’s nearly at the age-limit for the section anyway.  It’s time he stepped down.”

Mallory nodded.

“With all due respect,” Kimberly said, “that’s madness.  You try to get rid of those three and you burn down MI6 with it.  There’s no sense in throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”

“Then what do you propose?” Langley demanded.

Kimberly gave an easy smile.  “Easy,” he said.  “First, we need Q back.  We talk to him, get the lay of the land, so to speak.  We assess just how much he knows and doesn’t know, loyalties, the usual.  The best weapon is the one that cuts the enemy the sharpest, don’t you think?”

“You want to use Q and Trevelyan to strike back at Anastas,” Tanner said.

“Not even that much,” Kimberly said, holding up both hands.  “I’m saying we could keep him in check.  So long as we have his family, he can’t attack us for fear of hurting them, which he clearly doesn’t want to do.  We force him into a stalemate, maybe we can cut a deal with him.”

Mallory watched Kimberly carefully.  The man was sweating extravagantly, and while it was hot in the lounge, even a man as big as Kimberly shouldn’t have reacted so strongly to it.  Perhaps it was just paranoia, but Mallory thought that Kimberly knew something he wasn’t revealing just yet.

Kimberly, Ponsonby, Lee—they’d all been strong supporters of his own predecessor, God rest her soul.  She had relied on them for advice and guidance, and they in turn had held her up as an idol.  Much of MI6 had been built around the old M according to her specifications.

In short, Mallory didn’t trust any of the lot.  They saw him as an usurper, the stand-in no one had asked for.  While he couldn’t force them to like him, he didn’t have to give them any ground.

“Tanner,” Mallory said, his tone clipped as he moved from Kimberly.  “Thoughts.”

Tanner chewed the corner of his bottom lip.  He did so often when he was nervous, and it bothered Mallory to no end.  He didn’t know if he could trust Tanner to be honest or not.  He’d proved to be reliable so far, but he was also a friend to Bond and Q, and he had been the old M’s Chief of Staff since the beginning.

“I’m compromised,” Tanner said flatly.  “Even so, regardless of what we choose to do with Q, I don’t think we can make a decision about Bond and Trevelyan without Lee and the psychiatrists.  The double-0 section is tricky to handle, and Lee is Ponsonby’s superior.  We should find out what they think.”

Mallory could guess what they would think.  Ponsonby would do anything in her power to avoid a sweep of Bond and Trevelyan, and Lee would make sure that Ponsonby’s wishes were fulfilled.  Mallory knew their history: M had wanted to institute Ponsonby as the new head of a newly-divided set of sections: the enforcers, agents on the ground delivering arms and strong-arming in turn, the troubleshooters, the field quartermasters adept in both technological and physical combat who made operations run smoothly on-site, and the double-0 section.  The enforcers and the troubleshooters had been under the same roof under Lee’s leadership, but M had wanted Lee to head the troubleshooters only, with new heads for the enforcers and double-0 section and with Ponsonby supervising all.

Ponsonby had met with M, and in a single meeting that hardly spanned a few hours, the decision had been made to promote Lee instead.  Mallory had checked the records and found no transcript of the conversation, but gossip was abundant.  Macular degeneration had left Lee’s husband blind.  He continued to work, but managing the disease on top of Lee’s parents and her own child had left Lee stretched thin.  Ponsonby had forced M to give Lee the job so that she could have a better paycheck, fewer working hours, and a better home situation.  In return, she received a yes-man to back her in all of her decisions.

“All right,” Mallory said finally.  “Now that I know where all of you stand, it’s safe to say that we are divided on this issue.  There’s no time for reconciliation or debate at the moment.  The Prime Minister will send someone for us at any moment, and we need to present a unified front.  We finish here, then discuss on the way back to headquarters.  Q is meant to be dropped off by morning.”

Each of his associates nodded once, though Langley scowled at Kimberly.  Tanner continued to worry his lip.  Mallory took a deep breath.  The Prime Minister would know that something was afoot the moment she saw them if they didn’t get themselves together.

Mallory wasn’t one to lament coming out of the field, but he missed being able to rely on his associates to have decent poker faces.

* * *

Only Kimberly’s excessive sweating indicated that anything was amiss.  By the time the Prime Minister sent for them, Langley had put on her impassive mask, and Tanner had managed to stop treating his lips like chew toys.

After some more pointless talk and the promise to meet up within the next twelve hours, Mallory was released.  He took a car with Langley back to Vauxhall, leaving Tanner with the now-smelly Kimberly.

“I don’t like this,” Langley said as soon as the doors were closed and the partition had been rolled up.  “Kimberly knows something.”

“He used to be one of my predecessor’s inner circle,” Mallory said.  “Of course he knows something.”

“Something needs to be done,” Langley said.  Her eyes were trained on him.  She might have been boring holes in his jacket with a laser pointer for all that her gaze was sharp.

“That we do,” Mallory said.  “Wake me up when we get there.  I’ve a feeling we won’t be getting home anytime soon.”

* * *

As it was, Mallory didn’t get to stay at Vauxhall very long, either.  Part of R’s negotiations had involved the location of prisoner transfer.  RAF Northolt had been the decided locale.  Mallory was thankful that R had had the presence of mind to pick a military airport.  If the exchange went sour, there would be backup.

Then again, the planes that were flying in were loaded with weaponry.  Anastas specialized in transporting nuclear materials, and there was no reason to believe he hadn’t brought it with him.  The planes needed to be treated with the utmost caution.

Five planes landed just before dawn.  They sat in a row on the asphalt as the sun rose.  Mallory had men wheel stairs up to the doors on each vehicle, but no one emerged.  Mallory, Moneypenny, and Tanner stood and waited.  Behind them, Martin Dvorak kept a firm grip on the hostage, the woman in the white haïk.  Mallory frowned to look at her.  She was a mess, and after her outburst detailing Q’s relation to Anastas, Lee couldn’t pry another word out of her.  They still didn’t know her name.  Mallory didn’t like any of it.

Still, they waited.  When the sun was halfway above the horizon, the first door opened.

There was a flurry of movement behind Mallory.  The woman in the white haïk tried to spring free, only to be held down by Dvorak, whose kind demeanor belied a savage strength.  The officers manning the base raised their weapons.

“Hold your fire.  Lower your weapons,” Mallory ordered.  He’d set up direct communications with all officers to ensure that everything ran smoothly.  They were slow to comply in issuing his orders to their men, though, and Mallory hoped that the delay wouldn’t prove problematic.

In the poor light, it was difficult to see, but Mallory was grateful for the order not long after he gave it: the figures descending from the plane had their hands behind their head and walked in a single file.  Behind them walked two men.  Though their weapons were at their sides, they were well armed.

“That’s R’s second team being escorted out,” Moneypenny said.  “They monitored Fu Ziqiang’s dealings.”

“Lower your weapons,” Mallory ordered again.  He nodded to Dvorak.  The other man nodded and began to walk the woman in the white haïk forward.

Dvorak and the guards met at the middle of the airfield.  Mallory waited.  Dvorak began to gesture, and the guards shook their heads.  Mallory cursed his tired mind; he hadn’t thought to put a bug on Dvorak to monitor the conversation.

“That looks bad,” Tanner said.  Mallory took a bracing breath.

“Hold your fire,” he said again.  The words were weak in his own mouth.

Dvorak said something, and one of the guards reached for a side arm.  The woman in the white haïk hit Dvorak in the stomach, and one of R’s team was sneaking closer to one of the guards.

All at once, a different plane opened its doors.  The guards fell back into line, their hands moving away from their weapons as they held their hands in front of their bodies.  Dvorak took a step back to get a better look.

Q emerged from the plane.  Mallory would have recognized him in the dead of night with that mop of hair.  He looked clean and well-rested, Mallory noted.  Good for Q, perhaps, but bad for MI6.  Four guards trailed Q off of the plane.  Their armaments made the Team Two guards look like toy soldiers.

Q joined Team Two in the middle of the field.  Dvorak stood stiffly as he conversed with the guards.  Slowly, the crowed receded—the guards with the woman in the white haïk, Dvorak with Team Two and Q.

Mallory breathed a sigh of relief, even as he saw the woman in the white haïk get on the very plane Q had just exited.

“All units are to stand down,” Mallory ordered.  “We are not intercepting take off.  I want all units to stand down.”

Q was fast approaching.  He looked relieved to see Mallory, but Mallory couldn’t shake just how well Q looked to begin with.  This was not the face of a man twice kidnapped and held hostage.

Mallory nodded once at Moneypenny, who went to meet Q.  Mallory watched as they embraced and headed for a car.

“Are you sure about this?” Tanner asked when they were out of earshot.

“He’s more than putting on a brave face,” Mallory said.

“You think Anastas got to him.”

Mallory rubbed his temples.  The lack of sleep was getting to him.

“Sir?” Tanner asked.  “He’s been through a lot, and he’s clearly glad to be back.”

“Stick with the plan,” Mallory said.  “We’ll find out if he means it soon enough.”

* * *

At seven o’clock in the morning, M had had two cups of strong tea and was wishing for something stronger.  He sat in his office, waiting for Moneypenny to come back.  She’d had Q delivered to an interrogation room, and while Mallory wasn’t all too eager to hear how Q had reacted when he realized he wasn’t exactly getting a warm welcome home, he needed to know where they stood.  The sooner they got this over with, the sooner everyone could go home.

Moneypenny breezed into his office as if walking in heels for the past twenty-four hours did not faze her.  For all Mallory knew, it didn’t.

“Well?” Mallory asked.

Moneypenny winced.  “He took it about as well as expected.  He’s hurt, not physically, and he feels betrayed.”

“Have you found an interrogator?”

Moneypenny shook her head.  “I’ve asked several, but no one will do it.”

Mallory arched an eyebrow.  “What?”

“There are very few outside of Lee’s jurisdiction who have the clearance for this sort of,” Moneypenny cleared her throat, “hearing.”

Mallory tilted his head.  “You don’t approve of this.”

Moneypenny took a breath.  “No, sir.  Something needs to be done, but not this.”

“We agreed.”

Moneypenny met Mallory’s eyes.  “We did.  That was before we laid eyes on Q.  He’s on our side.”

“You’re his friend,” Mallory said flatly.

“Yes,” Moneypenny said.  Mallory let the statement hang.  “I think we should let Lee do it.”

Mallory shook his head.  “No.”

“Sir, she’s been handling this case already,” Moneypenny said.

Mallory stood.  “And look what’s become of it,” he said.  “We don’t even know the name of the last person she interrogated.”

“But look what information we got!”

“Information which you seem to think it’s best to ignore,” Mallory said, his voice stiff.  He walked to the windows, eager for a smoke.  His fingers twitched, but he held off.

“Not ignore, no, sir,” Moneypenny said.  “But I don’t think this is the way to do it.”

“No,” Mallory said.  “Then how would you handle it?”

A speaker crackled to life, and Mallory’s attention was drawn to his desk.

“Good morning,” Lee said through the speakers.  Her voice was soft.  “How are you?”

“Why am I here?” Q asked.

As Lee began to give a weak explanation, Mallory stormed over to the desk.  “Lee,” he rumbled into his end of the comm line, “you are not authorized to be in there.”

Lee studiously ignored him, but she also left the comm lines open.

“What is she doing?” Moneypenny asked.

“Disrupting operations.  Who else is down there?”

“I’ll check,” Moneypenny said, but her voice betrayed that her mind was far away.  Mallory watched something flicker across her face, then she was striding down the hall.

“We have to stop the interrogation!” Moneypenny called behind her.  Mallory jogged to keep up with her.

“I agree,” Mallory said, confused, “but you said you wanted Lee to do this.”

Moneypenny whipped around to face Mallory.  “If Lee’s in there,” she said, “who’s watching Bond and Trevelyan?”


	21. Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q's interrogated, Trevelyan and Bond come to a consensus, and treason is committed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for all of the help editing this!

Trevelyan paced the holding cell where he’d been placed after they had decided to separate him from Bond.  He stalked the perimeter for lack of anything better to do, scowling at the lock on the door as he did so.  It was a small space, smaller even than the interrogation rooms.  Trevelyan wasn’t fond of being cooped up in small places.

“Sit down,” Bond insisted yet again.  His voice drifted through a grate in the wall.  Whether by accident or design, Bond and Trevelyan had been separated, only to find themselves in effectively adjoining rooms.  The hilarity was not lost on Trevelyan, but he was in no gaming mood.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Trevelyan snarled.  His knuckles were bloody and his lip had started bleeding again and he wanted to hit a wall, so he did.  His knuckles screamed in agony, and it was all he could do to not scream himself hoarse.  “How come you’re so relaxed, anyway?” he grit, watching the blood well up through the split skin of his hands.  “What happened to you?”

“You heard Ponsonby,” Bond said.  Trevelyan could just see him through the grate if he knelt by it: Bond sat in a tiny chair, his arms folded across his chest.  His cheeks were bruised and Trevelyan was sure he’d heard one of Bond’s ribs crack during the fistfight with Lee, but he couldn’t be sure.  Bond tipped back and forth, as if he were rocking himself.  Perhaps he was.

“To hell with Ponsonby,” Trevelyan said.  “This isn’t a plan, this is containment.”

“It’s not locked,” Bond said.

Trevelyan flexed his hands.  The joints ached.“Do you think that makes any of this any better?” he demanded.

Bond was quiet for long enough that Trevelyan came to the grate.  Bond was still sitting, but he frowned now.  “Why don’t you go?” Bond said.  “I’ll stay here.  I’ll take care of it myself.”

“The hell you will,” Trevelyan said.

Bond smiled coldly.  “You sound like me.”

“No, I sound like _me_.  It’s you who got hot-headed earlier,” Trevelyan said.  “I tried to keep you level, but you wouldn’t listen.  Suddenly Ponsonby talks through Lee with some ‘plan’ and you’re the next Dalai Lama.”

“Alec—”

“James,” Trevelyan said.  He slammed his fist against a wall again.

“Alec, don’t,” Bond said.  He kneeled by the grate now, watching Trevelyan, who laughed.

“It’s hilarious,” Trevelyan said.  “It’s hysterical, isn’t it?”  Bond said nothing.  “You know, I always wondered what I did wrong.  The people I was put with as a kid, you know, they were fine.  Nice, kind—but they were always a little afraid.  You probably wouldn’t know, but I think they’re usually afraid, if only at first.  I’d thought they were afraid of messing up.  Afraid of me, I think now.  They had to have known where I came from.I remembered my mother—my real mother—going away, and I always thought that my father was fed up.  Didn’t want kids.  That’s why he gave me up.

“I’d thought that the baby died.  I remember him as a baby, you know.  Cute, tiny.  I couldn’t have been older than six or seven, but he was so small.  I thought he’d died, too, and that’s why we hadn’t gone together.  Kids usually go together.”

Trevelyan looked up at the gray ceiling.  “Makes sense, too.  M didn’t trust me with,” he said, looking back down at himself, “this.  Ponsonby told me our M didn’t want me promoted.  Come to think of it, she never said why.”  

Trevelyan smiled without mirth.  On the other end, Bond was quiet.  He was always a good listener when it came to Trevelyan.

“Do you think it’s true?” Trevelyan asked.  “Do you think what’s-her-name told Lee the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Bond rumbled from the other side of the grate.  “But I’m going to carry on as if she did.”

Trevelyan laid his head against the wall.  “So what are you going to do?” he asked.  His knuckles ached as the adrenaline left his system.  His entire being ached.  He didn’t remember the last time he slept, or ate, or anything else.  He remembered sitting on a balcony with a girl with a burn on her right hand, laughing about something meaningless.  He liked her, and he was sorry he hadn’t said good-bye.  Leaving without saying anything, that was Bond’s way of doing things, or it had been.

In the back of his mind, he reminded himself that Bond had been going even longer, looking for Q.

“I’m going to carry out the plan,” Bond said.  “Down to the letter.  I’m going to get him out of here.”

Trevelyan looked across the cell to the far gray wall, which wasn’t so far at all.

“That means treason, James,” Trevelyan said, struggling to keep his voice level.

“You don’t have to do this, Alec,” Bond said.  “The door isn’t locked.  You can walk out of this.”

“Think about what you’re saying,” Trevelyan said.  He’d pictured the scenario already.  “I walk out that door and MI6 never leaves me in peace.  You’re the one who’s free to leave.”

“I’m not going to let him down again,” Bond said quietly.  “I didn’t get there in time.  I wasn’t there when he was handed over.  I wasn’t there when they took him in the first place.I didn’t protect him.”

“James, that isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” Bond insisted, and Trevelyan couldn’t argue with him, not really.  “If I walk out that door, no one will hunt me, but I won’t have peace because I won’t be able to give it to myself.”

A silence hung over the adjoined cells.  Trevelyan breathed in stale air and dust.  Bond was right: they both had choices to make.  Bond had already made his: he was going to go down with Q—with Trevelyan’s own brother, he reminded himself.  He thought of the baby he only dimly remembered.  His baby brother.

With that in mind, Trevelyan’s decision didn’t seem so hard.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Three minutes,” Bond said.

“Three minutes,” Trevelyan echoed.  He plastered a grin on his face.  “Say, violence is probably a bad first impression for my kid brother, wouldn’t you say?”

Through the iron grate, Bond’s grin was electric.  “I think we’re a bit beyond first impressions,” he said, “but if you’re worried, I’ll do most of the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, will you, old man?”

“Careful, junior,” Bond mocked.

“You’re the one who should be careful.  I’m watching you, now.  Do anything to hurt my little brother and you’ll regret the day you were born.”

“Are you threatening me?” Bond asked, laughing.  Trevelyan stood up and faced the door.

“Only if you deserve a good thrashing,” Trevelyan said.

“One minute,” Bond said.  “I think it’s you who needs the thrashing.”

“We’ll see about that,” Trevelyan said.  He focused his attention on the door.  T minus three, two, one…

The comm lines that Lee had planted on each of them went active.  Lee’s voice filled their ears.

Trevelyan hit the door with everything he had.  It wasn’t locked, but he wanted the element of surprise.His shoulder tried to crumple in on itself, but it held strong, and the door flew open.  Adrenaline recharged his system, and the two guards posted outside of his door didn’t stand a chance.  His ears ringing and full of the sounds of blood pumping and Lee asking, “How are you?”, he missed Bond’s similarly dramatic exit.

“Why am I here?” Q asked through the earpiece.  He sounded small, tired, and scared.  Trevelyan could practically see Bond’s pulse skyrocket as they both tore down the hall.

“Just a few questions,” Lee reassured.  “Nothing serious.”

“This is an interrogation room,” Q said.  “This is very serious, and I have a right to know why I am here.”

The two guards stationed at the end of the hall posed as little threat to the two double-0s as the ones outside the doors.  They went for their side arms, but Bond broke the legs on one and stole his gun.  Trevelyan went straight for the arms of the other and dislocated both of them, similarly relieving him of his weaponry.  Armed now, Trevelyan followed Bond through the maze of tunnels that was the lower levels of MI6 headquarters.

“Indeed, you do,” Lee said.  “You were kidnapped twice.  Mallory is under the impression that you may be compromised.”

“Next left,” Bond said.  Trevelyan checked over his shoulder.  More would be coming soon.  They were to try to kill as few as possible, but if the agents made it impossible… Ponsonby and Lee weren’t picky.

Trevelyan could hear Q laugh just a little over the line, and he smiled in spite of himself.  Near the lifts, someone took a shot at Trevelyan.  Bond and Trevelyan both slammed against the nearest wall, shielding themselves from further shots.

“One,” Bond said.

“Because I’ve just been told that I’m Anastas’ son?” Q asked.

Trevelyan’s smile didn’t drop.  As he rounded the corner, a gun in each hand, he took two shots to the shooter’s chest, then smashed three of the shooter’s ribs and snapped his wrist with his bare hands.

“This way,” Bond said, darting past him to head for the lifts.  Trevelyan followed.

“That’s right,” Lee said.  “There are those who think that you’re something of a Trojan horse.”  Inside the lift, Bond and Trevelyan punched the number for the floor of interrogation rooms.  They stood against either side of the elevator, ready to shoot when the doors opened.  They nodded once at each other.

The lift opened.  There was no one immediately outside, but there would be guards nearby.  Bond went forward first, Trevelyan spinning around to run backwards, waiting for an ambush that would surely be arriving any moment now.

“Do you believe I’m a threat?” Q asked.

“No,” Lee said.  “I don’t.  And there are many who agree with me.”

Interrogation Room 20 was two corridors down from the lifts, three from the nearest staircase.  Trevelyan’s mind ran through the exit strategy and found it lacking.  There was nothing to do about it now, though.

As Bond and Trevelyan headed down the second corridor, guards appeared from the first, likely from the lift.  Trevelyan, a gun in each hand, took out their kneecaps before they could so much as speak.

“Q, we just want to ensure that you and MI6 continue to function at the highest level,” Lee was saying.  “We want to help you.”

“More bullets,” Trevelyan said, backtracking to steal their weapons as well.  Bond kept moving, and Trevelyan had to sprint to catch up with him.

“Is that what this is?” Q asked.  “Helping?”

“Perhaps this will take some proof,” Lee offered.

Bond was two steps from the doors.  As promised, there were no guards posted immediately outside.

Trevelyan backed Bond as he burst into the room.  For one brief instant, neither Q nor Lee recognized the intrusion.  Lee had bent wholly over the table as she slid something over to Q, and Q recoiled in fear for what she was about to unleash.  Trevelyan took out the cameras while Bond grabbed Lee and knocked her out, hitting her over the back of the neck with a gun.

“Time to go,” Bond muttered, grabbing Q.  The Quartermaster hissed in pain, but Trevelyan didn’t get to see Q’s face to check for injuries.  Four more guards had arrived, and there were echoes of boots down every hall.

“Second that,” Trevelyan said.  He shot toward both ends of the hallway, using the ricochet of the metal against the walls to sow confusion and fear, and Bond, carrying Q with one arm, used his free hand to help.

They ran, Bond in front, Trevelyan covering both the front and the rear.  The lift was out, and the stairs were risky, so they made for the nearest exit: the garage.

The gunfire was intense.  Trevelyan didn’t have time to reload, so he contented himself with grabbing weapons off of the agents they shot as they moved forward, trying to get out.  Trevelyan couldn’t see Q, tucked as he was against Bond’s chest, but he figured that the young Quartermaster had seen much worse, albeit through computer screens.

Close to their destination, the three of them were forced to hide around a corner as several agents, each ordering them to stand down, approached.

“I’m out,” Trevelyan said, holding up both of his current weapons.  He looked to Bond.

“Two shots,” Bond said.  Trevelyan scowled.  Not enough.

“I’m not dying down here,” he said.

“No one’s dying down here,” Q said.  His voice came in a raspy wheeze that sounded unhealthy.Trevelyan looked at Q, simultaneously aware that it was the first time that he had either seen or heard the other man—his brother, Trevelyan reminded himself, his _brother_ —speak in person.

“Do you have an idea?” Bond asked.  Had the situation not been quite so dire, Trevelyan might have ribbed him for looking as if he’d seen the Virgin Mary in the sky when he looked at Q.

Q glanced to their left.  There was a fork in the corridors there with a terminus built into a one of the walls.  

“There’s no cover,” Bond said.

“No, but it’s a control panel.  It controls the sprinkler system down here.”  After a moment’s wiggling accompanied by a pained grunt—the Quartermaster was most certainly hurt—Q extracted a device from his back pocket.  It was the thing Lee had given to Q just before Bond broke down the door.  “And this is the equivalent of a taser.”

Trevelyan would have asked how the hell he knew that, but Bond had tossed the device down the hall with the guards and was taking aim at the console Q pointed at.  Trevelyan braced himself against the wall and waited.

The sprinklers smelled terrible, and the water was brown and disgusting.  It gushed from the ceiling all around them.  Trevelyan hunkered over so as not to catch it on his face, and Bond shielded Q as best as he could.

The guards screamed as electricity ran through their bodies.  After hearing something from Q, Bond gestured at Trevelyan to run.  The quivering forms of the guards shook against the floor as the two double-0s and the Quartermaster passed over them.  Trevelyan made a note to apologize for hitting Lee in the breast earlier after her interrogation of the woman in the white haïk.  She wasn’t half bad.

Safely in the garage, Bond ran for a car.

“Very inconspicuous,” Trevelyan said, shaking himself off.  If he needed a shower before, it was urgent now.  “We’ll ruin the seats, you know.”

Bond smiled and jingled the keys Lee had slipped him earlier.  “What can I say,” he said, “they know me so well.”  Trevelyan shook his head, and water flew everywhere.  The seats were covered in some sort of plastic.  

Bond helped Q into the back while Trevelyan climbed into the passenger seat.  There was a large box up front: several handguns and rounds of ammunition, and directions to a safe house that was, in Ponsonby’s handwriting, “better stocked”.  Trevelyan laughed as Bond revved the engine.  Maybe they wouldn’t last long, but it was going to be one hell of a ride.

 


	22. Congress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for the wonderful beta work!

Anastas was in no mood to talk on the flight home.  He sat, staring at the empty booth in front of him.

“He will return,” Anastas said, speaking Russian once more.  The woman in the white haïk had learned from Anastas’ guards that he had spoken exclusively in English while his son was present.  For Anastas, that was no mean feat.  To hear him speak Russian was a relief.

The woman in the white haïk rubbed at her wrists.  Yin Lee.  She would remember that name.

It was night again when they landed.  The woman in the white haïk paid no attention to their surroundings.  It was dark, and she was tired.  She sat in the back of a van by herself as they drove.  Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to feel every bump and jolt of the tyres against the rough gravel road of wherever they were.  She breathed deeply and rubbed her broken arm.

When she next looked out the window, she saw the silhouettes of signs planted in fields at irregular intervals.  If she squinted, she could see Chairman Mao’s face peering out of each of them.  Leaning back, she sighed.  Fu Ziqiang’s territory, then.  At least, she thought, she would get good medical care.

Absently, she wondered if the _lapin_ had found his payment yet.  The woman in the white haïk hoped so.  Had it not been for him, nothing would have worked.  He had been an integral part of the operation, and Anastas wanted him to know that.  The woman in the white haïk smiled to herself.  Of course, she’d played her own part well enough.  Anastas would be pleased.

Within the next half an hour, the woman in the white haïk watched through the window as the van pulled into a fortress-like compound.  She knew where they were, now: Wuhan.

Inside, the woman in the white haïk was escorted through four different security screenings to reach a white room with lilac curtains.  Even with the lights on, the night rolled through the closed window and curtains, and the woman in the white haïk jumped at shadows.

A doctor came to see her.  He did not look her in the eye.

“I need to speak to Anastas,” the woman in the white haïk said.  “He will send for me soon.”

The doctor called for several nurses from the hallway and gave rapid-fire orders.  The woman in the white haïk spoke no amount of Chinese—no Mandarin, no Cantonese, and not even a smattering of any other dialect.  She regretted it now as they sat her on a stretcher and wheeled her out of the room, as if she hadn’t walked to get there in the first place.

Still, she knew an exercise in futility when she saw one.  Exhausted, she leaned back against the stretcher, watching as light after light set into the white, white ceiling passed overhead.  Anastas would hear her report soon enough.  Once he sent for her, they could continue planning.

As she had expected, her arm was broken.  Aleksandr’s grip had been strong—his father would have been proud, had he been there to see it.  The doctors put her in a cast and gave her pills that had no label, which she eyed warily and ultimately declined.  She thought of Genya in Berlin and smiled.  He was no fool, even under duress.

The woman in the white haïk slept fitfully, though she was so very tired.  Her body thrummed with adrenaline and nerves.  She dreamt of fire and pain, and of corridors stretching on without end.  She was safe again, back from another successful operation.  Why did she feel so tense?

In the morning, Anastas sent for her.

Anastas had chosen to meet in a spacious conference room that had all of the warmth of a freezer.  The long room was empty except for Anastas, who sat at the end of a long table in an uncomfortable armchair.  As elsewhere, Chairman Mao glared dolefully down at her from a picture on the wall.  

Anastas looked about as well-rested as she did, which consoled her only a little.  Her arm throbbed within the cast, and she had an itch on her forearm she could not scratch.

“Apate,” Anastas said.  “Sit.”

The woman in the white haïk, Apate, sat.

“Tell me about my son,” Anastas said.  “Tell me about Aleksandr.”

Apate spoke at length.  Aleksandr, was strong, she said.  As all reports indicated, he was very close to the one called James Bond.  He wanted to help his friend in any way that he could.  He knew when to take charge and when to fall back.  He was very strong, but he could be gentle when he needed to be.

Compassionate, strong, fearless—a worthy son for Anastas, Apate thought as she spoke.  If only circumstance had not mandated that Aleksandr be raised by others.

All throughout, Anastas listened with rapt attention.  He recoiled at Apate’s description of Aleksandr’s facial scarring—“Slater has paid her debt to me in full,” Anastas had said, and that was that—and he had smiled when Apate recalled his son’s many virtues.

“This is good,” Anastas said.  “My children have grown so very strong.”

Apate sensed that now was not the time to discuss plans, not yet.  “And Genya?” she asked carefully.  In the past, all mentions of Genya had been dangerous prospects.  Anastas was very proud of Aleksandr, but he worried incessantly for Genya.  Born too early, born too small—luck was not with the baby, and Anastas had feared he would not live long.  Even now, when he was grown and working with MI6, reports that he had become romantically entangled with a contract killer had shaken Anastas.  He had been waiting for the call that told him that the boy was dead, that there was no chance of retrieving the tiny life Anastas had traded so much to protect.

“Genya,” Anastas breathed.  “Oh, my Genya.”  He smiled hugely.  “He is brilliant.  I could see his mind when we spoke, all of those gears turning.  Just like his mother, down to his eyes.  Such a wondrous child.  That I could have created such a marvel— He feared me, of course, but we spoke for a long time.  He asked me about his mother, and I told him the truth.  How could I not?  I told him about the cradle I carved for him.  About the cord that was wrapped around his neck when he was born.  I told him about Aleksandr, how his little eyes had shined so bright when he learned that he had a little brother.”

Anastas’ smile dimmed.  “He believed they would not persecute him if he went back,” he said.  “Such innocence.  I tried to explain, but he is headstrong.  Proud, too.”  He laughed once.  “I wonder where he gets that from, eh?”

Apate bowed her head.  “Aleksandr and his James Bond will protect him.”

Anastas’ eyes hardened.  “I have faith in Aleksandr,” he said.  “If this James Bond does not protect my son…”

Apate did not need to hear the threat finished to know what was coming.  Those who fell to Anastas’ ill graces received fates so much worse than death.  Apate had not been there when Slater was killed, but she had seen the aftermath.  She was glad it had been Aleksandr, not Genya, to see it, too.

“Aleksandr was not on the field,” Anastas said.  “I told Genya I would leave him with his brother, but I could not.”

Apate said, “You left him with Martin Dvorak, the chief of their enforcers.  Our intelligence indicates that he works closely with the double-0 section chief, Loelia Ponsonby.  They will see Genya to safety.  They are more like us than they are willing to admit, and they protect their own.”

“I, too, was satisfied with Martin Dvorak.  I listened as he spoke to my men.  Otherwise,” he said, shifting, “you would not be with me now.”

Apate repressed a shiver.  She did not want to be left behind.  “Our worm is watching Aleksandr and Genya even now,” she said.  “I gave just enough information to set our plan into motion, but our man will make sure that they are far away before anything starts.”

The wistful look in Anastas’ eyes vanished.  “Good,” he said.  “I want no complications.  I came this far for my family.  I will cut no corners now.”

Apate smiled thinly.  “As for information, MI6 knows very little.  The old M, rest her soul, was true to her word: few, if any, within MI6 knew about Aleksandr or Genya.  They attempted to break me by suggesting that you had killed Genya yourself.”

Anastas clenched his fist, but otherwise said nothing.

“The woman who interrogated me,” Apate said, “Yin Lee.  She is dangerous.”

“Yin Lee,” Anastas said.  “I remember her.  Her skills are incredible.  She must be treated with caution.  Fu Ziqiang will want to know about her.”

Apate said, “Our source indicates that she, together with Loelia Ponsonby, no longer fully support MI6.  They were loyal to the previous M, rest her soul, but now the organization frays.  Their new head, Gareth Mallory,” she said, “he does not command the same respect.”

Anastas breathed deeply.  “Gareth Mallory,” he said, testing the syllables.  “So careless with his name.  M was never so careless.”

“He has supporters in Megan Langley, Eve Moneypenny, and Vimala Nagarkar, all high ranking officers,” Apate said.  “Yin Lee, Parry Kimberly, and Loelia Ponsonby oppose him.  Other chiefs have not shown their loyalties.”

“What about William Tanner?” Anastas said.  It was a name that had come up often.  He had a family, always a risky gambit for the spy business, and Anastas watched them carefully.

Apate said, “Reports indicate that he is very close with our new friend, James Bond.  It is unclear if this friendship is strong enough to withstand what must come.”

With a deep sigh, Anastas sank deeper into his chair.

“This is good,” he said.  “They are divided and open.  As soon as my sons are clear, we shall move.”  He folded his hands in front of his face as if to pray.

“The agents we found in Berlin,” he said, “were well questioned.  I watched the interrogations myself.  They revealed valuable information.”

Apate tilted her head, hugging her white haïk around her with her one free arm.  It was gray with dust, dirt, and smoke now, and she hoped she could get a chance to wash soon, or at least change her clothes.

“Did they give a way in?” Apate questioned.

Anastas shook his head.  “Better,” he said, sitting up straight.  “How much does our worm know about the consultant known as R?”

Apate paused, considering the position.  “Nothing,” she said.

“Indeed,” Anastas said, “neither did I, before today.  In truth, she is quite fascinating.

“She is younger than my Genya, true.  She must be nearly as smart.  Speaking to Genya, I was reminded of my earlier conversation with consultant R.  She, too, was afraid of me, but she was very strong.  She cared much about my Genya’s safety.”

Apate resisted the urge to fidget or cross her legs.  This was not information they could use.  She did not understand why Anastas spoke so highly of this woman.

“She teaches at Cambridge,” Anastas said, pronouncing the name carefully.  “Cambridge.  Do you know what she teaches there?  What she researches?”

“No, sir.”

“Nuclear astrophysics.”

Apate nodded politely.  Unless they were going to take their operation into space, she didn’t see the application.  She would have asked why MI6 would bother consulting with someone who could only theorize about space, but Anastas was speaking once more.

“She is very knowledgeable,” he said.  “Well organized, even if she did not seem it to me when we spoke.  Do you see?”

Apate was forced to shake her head no.  Lying to Anastas was not a good plan, even if it meant disappointing him.

As she anticipated, Anastas was not pleased.  “Come, you are smarter than that.  Why would MI6 need someone with her skill set?”

To avoid saying that she meant to ask him that very question, Apate said, “I do not know, sir.”

Anastas’ disappointment was palpable.  “Nuclear astrophysics,” he said.  “She is an expert in thermonuclear mechanics.”

Apate saw everything at once and had no way of vocalizing it.

“Of course,” she said lamely, her mind awash with possibilities.  Consultant R.  Apate would have to find her name—surely Anastas had already had someone dig it up, but Apate was curious—and see what she had published.  If she were any good…

The door to the conference room swung open, Apate turned to see a few men striding in.  Their voices were loud without the door to block the noise.  Apate blanched to see Aleksey Kohut amongst them.  She looked to Anastas, but he paid her no attention.

“…Shipment will be in tomorrow,” someone said in Ukrainian, speaking to Kohut.

“Good,” Kohut said.  He looked away from his messenger, who was already scurrying away, to see Apate and Anastas.  “Starting without me?”

“Never,” Anastas assured him.  “Come, sit,” he said, gesturing at Apate’s seat.  Immediately, Apate stood, moving to stand behind Anastas.  He stopped her before she could hover at his right shoulder.  “There,” he said, pointing at a seat at the end of the table.  Red-faced, Apate moved to the far end of the conference room and bowed her head.  She watched Kohut lean in to whisper something to Anastas, and they laughed heartily.  Apate stared down at the table to hide her face.  Anastas had not told her that he intended to host a summit for his inner circle this morning.

Unlike Kohut, the other leaders came with attendants and advisors.  Apate reminded herself that she was meant to be at Anastas’ right hand, his advisor in all things, but she kept the thought to herself.

Mirek Bureš came with two advisors and a man who was clearly a prostitute.  Bureš handed over a heavy satchel before dismissing him.  Apate watched the prostitute weigh the sack in his hands before he stepped out of the room.  He caught her eye and sent her a wink before he left.  Apate shivered in distaste.

Laurentin Adam came with just one advisor, a wizened Brazilian fellow in a pristine labcoat.  Adam made a show of pulling his advisor’s chair for him, a meaningless gesture of hospitality.  Everyone knew how Adam worked his men to the bone, and no degree of showmanship could erase the knowledge.

Fu Ziqiang, a tiny woman with a pinched face and a gnarled cane, came with her husband and several more advisors than Apate wished to count.  Apate watched as they seated themselves—Fu Ziqiang and her husband up by Anastas and the other leaders, the advisors filling in the gaps left at the table.  Apate noticed that the seat directly across from her had been left open.

She didn’t have to wonder long: Nika Musiał swaggered into the room as if he owned the place.  He, too, gave her a wink, but he mouthed, _“Pute_. _”_ He sat down across from her, at the end of Bureš’ contingent, though she knew that Bureš was not his handler.  Apate risked a glance at Adam.  His eyes were fixed on Anastas as they all waited for the session to commence.

Apate frowned at Musiał, who’s smile widened.  She didn’t know why an underling like him would be present at a meeting so important as this one seemed to be.  Then again, Apate herself had not been told.  She disregarded the thought.  Musiał had been with Slater in Berlin.  Anastas had to know; he’d raided the factory himself.  In fact, Apate had believed that Musiał had been killed in the firefight.  Her frown deepened.  Hadn’t that been the plan? Her eyes drifted to Anastas, who nodded once.   _Oh_.

“Friends, welcome,” Anastas announced, gesturing for his own guards to lock the door.  Apate listened to the reassuring sound of locks clicking and the universe settling back into place.  “It is with great pleasure that I look amongst you all today, hale and hearty.  However, it is with sadness that I call you at all.”

To their credit, no one in the room took to murmuring amongst each other, asking questions that would soon be answered.  They listened with rapt attention to every word that Anastas spoke.

“As many of you know,” Anastas boomed, “there has been among us for a long time a traitor.  We have not known the extent of his treachery, nor the reach of his arm, for too long.  He was careful, and it has taken us much valuable time and energy to uncover his tracks.  Now, though, I have irrefutable proof.”  Here, he shook his right fist.  “On the grave of my wife and on the futures of my children, I swear it to be so.”

Apate glanced at Musiał.  He appeared to be engrossed in Anastas’ speech, but she trusted him no further than a mouse trusts a snake.  Evidently, Apate thought, Anastas didn’t trust him, either: he had sent Apate to keep an eye on him.  Musiał kept his eyes fixed on the front of the room and his mouth closed, so he wasn’t making contact with anyone.

Apate’s eyes darted to Adam, who appeared much the same.  He watched Anastas with rapt attention, and his arms did not seem to move.

“Though it was long my fear, it is now my belief,” Anastas said, “that one of you broke our agreement with with the United Kingdom.  One of you hired one of our own, Annika Slater, to sabotage efforts in Bahrain and Siberia, and to kill my sons.”  Apate looked away from Musiał to see Anastas purse his lips in anger.  Looking back at Musiał, though, Apate noticed: dilated pupils, mouth slightly ajar to breath heavily, shoulders heaving, arms…

“One of you has used the rest of us to supply weapons to those we have deemed unworthy,” Anastas continued, “and has conspired to overthrow each and every one of us in a mad bid for tyrannical domination.  How do we treat a traitor such as this?”

Kohut smiled cruelly.  “Death,” he said, a whisper loud enough to be heard around the room.  Fu Ziqiang nodded furiously, as did Adam.  Bureš was less emphatic, but appeared to agree all the same.

The table in the conference room had metal rods underneath to support its weight.  Watching Musiał’s arms gave her the idea to touch it with her free hand, ever so lightly.

Vibrations met her fingertips.  They were distorted from traveling the width of the table, but Apate could still make it out: periodic taps at irregular intervals, with spaces…

_Morse code_.

Apate was not familiar with the underside of the table, but she could imagine that the metal supports made an arc along one side of the table, such that those seated on opposite ends of the table sat by the same metal piping.  Apate’s eyes wandered up Musiał’s length of the table.  Many advisors, Fu Ziqiang, and…

Laurentin Adam.

Apate’s eyes narrowed.  Fu Ziqiang was speaking and one of her advisors was translating into Russian, but Apate wasn’t listening.  She watched Adam’s hands.  As Musiał tapped on his side, ostensibly paying attention to the proceedings, Adam remained perfectly still.  Then, as Musiał stopped, Adam’s arm jiggled ever so slightly.

Apate exhaled sharply through her nostrils, momentarily drawing Musiał’s attention.  She glared at him, and he glared back, then went back to tapping.

Apate kept her finger on the pulse of the conversation, holding just lightly enough that the vibrations still seemed to be able to travel around the table.  In choppy English, Musiał was telling Adam to keep an eye on her.  As Musiał tapped his message, Adam didn’t so much as glance at her.  Adam was too good for that.

Adam tapped back that Apate didn’t matter.  They were almost done, and by the time Anastas figured it out, it would all be over.

Apate tried to catch Anastas’ eye, but he was watching Bureš as the man spoke.  Bureš wasn’t an odious fellow like Kohut.  He had none of Fu Ziqiang’s endless rage, or Adam’s intelligence, or Anastas’ combination of all of those things.  The best word Apate could come up with for Bureš was slimy.  He was a businessman, adept at navigating nearly any social strata in nearly any country.  Bureš handled business deals with governments as opposed to terrorist cells.  His three main traits—he was polite, contrite, and infinitely forgettable—helped him convince his partners that they were giving him the short end of the deal, when in reality, he was the one leaving them with the smoking gun.  Bureš was a force to be reckoned with.

Right now, Bureš wanted an explanation.  Of course they had known that there was a rat.  But to come out with this sweeping declaration, that Anastas knew it was one of the upper echelons of their circle, was too much, particularly given that he presented no proof.

Kohut was behind Anastas in a femtosecond.  It was his operation in Siberia that had been blown halfway to hell by this traitor’s work, Kohut said; it was time to strike back.  Fu Ziqiang agreed, though she gave no reason.  In reality, Apate knew, Fu Ziqiang just wanted blood.  She had never cared whose blood was to be shed, only that she would be the one to shed it.

Adam was slow to weigh in.  They did not know all of the variables, he said.  There were still too many unknowns.  And why, he asked, did Anastas leave his children with MI6 in the first place?  Surely they were old enough to be brought back into the fold.  Adam did not say so much, but Anastas was getting on in years.  Adam head heard Aleksandr was quite the marksman; why not bring them back?

Anastas slammed his fist against the conference room table.  Apate felt the metal bar vibrate with the force of his fist.  With apologies on all sides, the meeting was drawn to a close.

* * *

Anastas dismissed all but Fu Ziqiang and her husband.  The rest filed into the corridor and returned with their advisors to their separate quarters.  Bureš’ prostitute was still waiting outside; Bureš slipped an arm around the other man’s waist and muttered something into his ear that had him giggling.  Kohut lit a thin cigarette and complained in languid Ukrainian that Adam had pissed Anastas off yet again.  Adam cursed back at him in French and stalked off toward his labs, pulling his Brazilian advisor behind him like a disobedient dog on a leash.

Apate watched Adam leave.  Anastas’ words returned to her—consultant R specialized in thermonuclear mechanics, much like Adam.  She taught astrophysics, so the knowledge base was likely different, but still.  If Anastas was right and Adam was the bad apple, they had a nice new prospective to fill his place.

Apate walked slowly back to the room she had been placed in following her treatment.  Her cast chafed at her skin, and she hated it already.  She had not understood when they told her how long it would be, assuming they had told her at all.  The cast made her weak in the eyes of the others, who already only saw a woman when they should have seen a lion.

Rounding one last corner, Apate thought she heard someone behind her, but did not turn.  She did not suspect the garrote as it came hard across her windpipe, nor did she suspect the knife as it slashed at her abdomen.


	23. Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the real threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for all of the help in cleaning up this chapter!

The woman in the white haïk was dead.

Musiał stood in the doorway to the room Adam had told him was hers and could not move.Her body, pulled out into a cross on top of the bed, did not so much as shift against the sheets.Her chest did not rise, her eyelids did not flutter, and her fingers did not twitch.Her neck and her abdomen were wet with blood, and Musiał thought he could see her intestines poking through the fabric of that once-white haïk.Her body was cold and stiff.

“блядзь!” Musiał cursed.Someone had done his job for him.He glanced to the hallway.There was blood on the floor out there, and marks where it appeared as though she’d been dragged inside.Musiał had never seen the woman in the white haïk fight—he didn’t even know her name, in fact—but he knew that she answered directly to Anastas, and that meant that she could hold her own.Whoever it was had to have ambushed her, probably right after Anastas’ council.

Musiał cursed again, with more emphasis.Adam was going to be furious.He was supposed to kill the woman in the white haïk and make it look like Bureš had done it.Now, someone had beat him to the chase and he didn’t know who or why.She was dead, someone else knew it, and Adam was going to be so angry, Musiał didn’t like the thrashing he’d likely be in for.

Reasonably, he thought, the best option would be to run.If Adam decided not to back him up, Anastas would eat him alive.Musiał didn’t like the thought of that.He could get out; he was smart and resourceful enough to evade Anastas’ ring for the remainder of his life.Then again, he didn’t speak a single word of any dialect of Chinese, and he’d be caught long before he escaped Fu Ziqiang’s complex.He didn’t even know what province they were in.(He took a moment to assure himself that China had provinces to begin with.He did Eastern European operations, not Asian.He was out of his area of expertise.)

Musiał frowned at the pile of flesh on the bed.He’d have to face whatever form Adam’s anger took and hope that Adam didn’t turn him over or, worse, turn him into one of his subjects.Musiał shivered.That was to be avoided at all costs.He could always try to threaten Adam if it didn’t look like he would cooperate.Musiał was sure that Anastas would be very interested to learn what the scientist had been up to.Musiał hoped it wouldn’t come to that, though.For all that he wasn’t fond of Adam, Anastas was worse when it came to _rules_.Of course, Musiał would have rather answered to Slater than either one, though the argument could be made that she would have punished him the harshest of the three had Musiał’s latest blunder come to light.

Adam was nothing like Slater.Musiał usually lamented the fact, but faced with punishment, it seemed a blessing in disguise.Slater was someone he could respect: powerful, intelligent, strong.Musiał hated that she’d been made subordinate to a shrimp like Adam, but that’s how the circle worked, and Musiał wasn’t high enough in the pecking order to do anything but pull triggers and die for the cause.

Musiał thought of Adam, holed up in his lab, shooting laser beams at people and calling it science.He shivered and spat on the ground.Adam was a monster, but he was a monster who needed Musiał for the moment, and that was that.It was a shame that Musiał couldn’t have had Slater as his boss for real.Musiał had hoped that Slater and her lieutenants be permitted to live.They were good—really good.Adam had let them all down.Even if he’d saved Musiał’s own skin, that he’d abandoned so many good people left Musiał’s blood boiling.

A thought dawned on him.Slater’s lieutenants.He hadn’t thought of them in a while.Seeing them dead on the floor in that factory in Berlin had shaken him.As he thought about it, though, he realized that he might have missed something there during the commotion.When Anastas raided the compound, Adam had managed to convince him that Musiał was part of an undercover operation to watch Slater and to keep her from killing either Genya or Aleksandr, which was only half true.Anastas had wanted to tear him to pieces anyway, but Adam had prevailed.Musiał closed the door as he thought, though the blood outside would draw attention anyway.He tried to remember who had been dead and who had been alive when he was dragged outside after trying to catch Genya.

He remembered seeing Chelomeyev by Slater, near the middle of the atrium floor.Musiał had spent the most time with Chelomeyev out of anyone in Slater’s group.He’d been a lazy bastard through and through, but periodically he came up with gems.When Musiał had first been assigned to Slater’s team, back when they were working in Siberia, he’d made the mistake of going up against the man in a game of poker.He lost all but his shirt, and then Chelomeyev taught him how he’d cheated him out of his life savings.Musiał had liked the bastard.  

Musiał remembered seeing Lapotnikova near the hall door.He’d nearly tripped over her corpse on his way to catch the brat.Lapotnikova, unlike Chelomeyev, Musiał hadn’t been too fond of.She was too masculine.She was too fond of violence and knives and gunfire, particularly after the first incident with Aleksandr.Being shot by Anastas’ son had changed her, turned her harder than Musiał thought natural—harder, yes, than Slater.Slater had never truly liked violence, but she saw it as a means to an end, or so Musiał thought.He liked that, the dispassionate way in which she worked.He’d thought that he would get that same character in Adam.

Who else was there?Musiał didn’t remember much about Gorbachyov, but he’d been dead, too, and then there were the other two—

The other two.The Belarusians.Chistyavok and Ramazanova, the twins.Like Chelomeyev, not prone to work on their own, but incredibly adept at following orders.Musiał didn’t remember seeing their bodies.He’d looked for them, albeit briefly, before he was led away.They had fascinated him.Little more than children, yet the most dangerous of Slater’s lieutenants, Musiał had realized that they were the real threat not long after he joined up.

 _“You and you,”_ Slater had said in Berlin after speaking to Anastas, pointing to the Belarusians. _“I want you to find our dear Leyla.”_

Musiał shut his eyes.Leyla had been the name the woman in the white haïk used to enter Slater’s group.Slater had ordered the Belarusians to find “Leyla”, presumably to bring her back so that Slater could exact justice.The Belarusians had been loyal to Gorbachyov more so than Slater, but if they learned what had happened to both Gorbachyov and Slater…

Very carefully, Musiał left the room.He kept his face blank and his hands at his sides as he walked stiffly down the corridor to the southern part of the compound, where Fu Ziqiang had her labs and where Adam could be found.Musiał tried to focus on regions of shadow, checking corners surreptitiously.They were here. Chistyavok and Ramazanova had killed “Leyla”.If they were here, they might have seen Musiał at Anastas’ conference, or at least have listened to it.If so, they knew that he was affiliated with one of the bosses, that he hadn’t gone down in Berlin because he’d had an out.Musiał’s very bones shivered as he headed for the labs.They would come for him next.He needed reinforcements.

The walls, unfortunately, were largely half-high or glass.Fu Ziqiang enjoyed modern architecture despite the rural surroundings, and though her compound was surrounded on the outside with stone to blend in, on the inside it looked remarkably like the interior of a lab Musiał had once seen in a bad Hollywood film.Every room was cold, black and white and chrome all over.Portraits of Mao leered out of most.There were few places to hide, and fewer still that Musiał could access easily.He quickened his step.Twice, he managed to convince himself that the pulse in his ears were footsteps behind him and he broke out into a full run.

To get to the labs, Musiał had to cross an open courtyard.A fountain, all straight lines and edges, stood in the middle, a jagged monument to a new era of mankind.Above, between the light pollution from the city and the rolling clouds, the stars and the moon were invisible.Terrified to be caught in the dark, Musiał managed to build up enough speed so as to be unable to stop and crashed headlong into the fountain.His arms, thrown up to protect his face, stung as they slid across the raw stone.Involuntarily, he shrieked in his momentary agony, and the next moment, all of the blood ran from his face as he realized his mistake.Crossing the other half of the courtyard, he ran faster than before, refusing to look behind him.

Adam’s labs had an access panel.Four numbers was all Musiał needed, but it took him three tries and a retinal scan before the unyielding doors finally took pity on him.Inside, Musiał collapsed onto the floor and let out a strangled sob.

“Tell me you haven’t been trailing her blood all this way.”

Musiał lifted himself off of the floor to see Adam watching him.The scientist stood on a raised platform near the front of the room.A balloon-like structure was behind him.It might have been a blimp, had one end not been dedicated to rockets that might have sent a spacecraft into orbit.

“No,” Musiał said.He sniffed and looked at his arms.In the dark, he hadn’t noticed, but he was bleeding profusely.Looking at it, the pain hit him, and he doubled over.

“But she is dead.”

Musiał gulped.“Yes.”

“ _Bien_ ,” Adam said.He had turned away from Musiał.“Very good.You are dismissed.”

“But—”

Adam held up a hand, and Musiał cowered on the floor.“Unless you wish to be my new subject,” he said, “you shall leave me in peace.Your reward will be forthcoming, I assure you.”

Musiał risked a glance to the back of the room.The Chambers, that’s what Adam called them—Experimentation Chambers.Musiał thought that those were pretty words for a horrific reality.Adam claimed they were crucial to his research, whatever that was.Musiał had never asked, had never wanted to know.He had brought Adam many of his subjects, however, and he’d been glad to do it—because so long as Musiał kept each of his Experimentation Chambers full, Adam would have nowhere to do the same to Musiał.

The sight of pen after pen of men and women and children alternatively screaming or crying or collapsed from days or weeks on end of Adam’s barbarism failed to soothe Musiał.

“Sir,” he said, and Adam whipped around.“Sir, she was already dead.”

Adam crossed the space between them in a few long strides.

“Say that again,” Adam said.Musiał knew that tone—Adam took it often when dealing with new “patients”, people who thought that if they just fought back enough, if they just cursed and screamed and threatened enough, they could escape.(Musiał knew of none who had escaped.)It was a tone that conveyed unbridled malice and hatred.

“Sir, she was already dead.”

Adam spit on Musiał.Musiał flinched.

“Who killed her?”

“I don’t know.”

Adam slapped Musiał, and it wasn’t until the resounding ringing had subsided that Musiał realized it.

“Try again.”

“I don’t know.”

Adam slapped him again, and Musiał’s face stung.

“Who?”

“I think some of Slater’s lieutenants may have survived.”

Adam raised his hand again and Musiał drew back, but the hit did not land.

“Who survived?” Adam asked.“That boor Anastas carved them up.He chopped them to pieces and burned them.I was there, saving your sorry ass from the fire.”Musiał demurred, and Adam took him by the collar and shook hard.Musiał’s head bounced back and forth on his shoulders.“Who survived?” Adam bellowed.

“Chistyavok,” Musiał said.His tongue couldn’t make the sound of the letter “s” appropriately, but the name was decipherable.“Ramazanova.”

Adam drew back.“The twins,” he muttered.“Inbred scum.Of course they would make it out.”

Musiał blurted, “You know them?”

Adam scoffed, but he appeared to have forgotten Musiał.“Chistyavok and Ramazanova.Why couldn’t it have been Gorbachyov?He would have made a fine subject…”

Adam walked away from Musiał and toward the Experimentation Chambers.Musiał made to follow him, but his legs refused to move.

As it turned out, Musiał was grateful for his body’s executive decision.From a distance, Musiał saw Adam pulling several levers on the two endmost cells, where the longest-surviving of his prisoners crouched on the ground.

Musiał closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the sound of electricity, the smell of burnt flesh, or the screams of the dying before they were finally snuffed out.

Adam kept the current running for three minutes after they died.Musiał did not count, but if he had he would not have believed it.It felt like an eternity.

Torture, Musiał could understand.Good, old-fashioned beatings.Water torture.Fire and branding.Fists and blades and blood.Adam, though, practiced something else.It was inhuman.

“ _Le Diable_ ,” Adam’s assistant would sometimes say.Adam would laugh.He was not a religious man, but he thought the Devil a mighty clever thing to become.Musiał used to spit on the floor to ward off the evil eye every time it happened, but it was so frequent that Musiał had resigned himself to it.He was the Devil’s servant.

“Bring them here,” Adam instructed.It took Musiał several seconds to understand that the order was directed at him.

“But—”

“Now,” Adam roared.“Or perhaps we could kill one of them and put you in their place, hm?”

Musiał didn’t need to be told twice.He jumped to his feet and turned to the door.

He made it no farther.There was a knife at his belly and a pistol at his forehead.Two identical pairs of eyes stared at him, daring him to move.Musiał didn’t so much as raise his hands as sag in place.

“Разгортвацца на месцы,” Ramazanova ordered.Musiał obeyed and spun on his heels, turning to face Adam, who didn’t appear to have realized that they had company.He was on his mobile speaking to someone, likely giving orders that two more bodies needed to be moved. “Патэлефануй яму.”

Musiał cleared his throat.“Sir—”

Adam cursed and turned to face him.“Why are you still here?” Musiał saw the moment he registered what was happening.Ramazanova held the gun to the back of his head, and Chistyavok dug his knife into Musiał’s back.If he pushed now, the blade would slide between Musiał’s vertebrae and kill him instantly.

“Ён забіў яе,” Chistyavok said. “Ён забіў яго.”

“What are they saying?” Adam questioned.His voice did not waver.

The knife dug a little deeper into Musiał’s back.He heard the slice of his shirt as the fabric gave up.“They say you killed Slater and Gorbachyov,” Musiał said.Ramazanova hissed, and Musiał took that to mean that he had interpreted correctly.

“Are they threatening you?” Adam asked.He sounded amused.

“Мы пасеем зямлю з косткамі,” Chistyavok said.“Мы абрашаць поля нашы з вашай крывёю.”

“Yes,” Musiał said.He did not want to translate.

Adam turned away and walked toward his desk.“Very well.”He opened a drawer.

Several things happened all at once.The barrel of the gun was removed from the back of Musiał’s head—Ramazanova was running toward Adam, screaming.Chistyavok ran to join his sister and sliced open Musiał’s back on the way.Musiał screamed and hit the ground.

Two shots rang out across the lab.

Chistyavok and Ramazanova dropped before they reached the platform upon which Adam’s desk rested.Adam himself stood, holding a pistol, the end of which smoked.Musiał gasped for breath.

“Shame,” Adam said.“ _Veuillez m’excuser_.I’m sure you would have been wonderful subjects.” He picked up his mobile again and dialed a number.“Two more for autopsy, please.Total of four.”

“Sir,” Musiał breathed.His back was bleeding, and he felt strange.Distantly, he remembered that the twins liked to coat their blades in poisons and toxins that acted fast.

Adam looked to Musiał.“More’s the pity,” he said.“You won’t last long, either.Not even for a single round.”He looked wistfully at the Chambers.“Two empty slots, and nothing to show for them.”

Musiał coughed.“You’re a monster.”

“Monsters are false entities,” Adam said.“Beings that do not exist beyond the realm of imagination.”He approached Musiał and picked up Ramazanova’s gun on his way down.“I am very real.”

He knelt next to Musiał, who found that he could not move away.

“It will be neat,” Adam said, accentuating the word.“So very neat.You stopped an attack on my life so bravely,” he said, putting his own gun into Musiał’s limp hands, “but you died trying.You will be remembered as a martyr.”

“Monster,” Musiał muttered.

Adam smiled, lifted Musiał, and shot him twice in the abdomen with Ramazanova’s gun.

 


	24. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys are on the run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for all of the help with this chapter!

Halfway to the safe house, Bond thought of the janitor.There had been a janitor down in the garages, sweeping up the concrete.It wouldn’t have been odd, except he hadn’t tried to impede their progress.In fact, he’d stayed out of the way entirely, never coming close enough to suggest that he meant any harm.He did keep them in sight, however.

Lee hadn’t mentioned a janitor as part of the plan.She and Ponsonby had said that there was no backup, no one to call in.MI6 would consider them defectors the moment the plan went into motion and it would be every man for himself.

Bond very nearly asked Q about the janitor, but a quick glance in the rear view mirror silenced him.

They had been driving for two hours, and despite Bond and Trevelyan’s best efforts, Q would not speak.He stared out the window, his eyes blank and unfocused.If he heard either one of them any time they tried to start a conversation, he did not show it.

Bond, who didn’t know what Slater or Anastas had done to him over the past twenty-four hours, was worried.He cast looks at Trevelyan, who had as little idea of what to do as he did.He was worried enough to call Ponsonby or Lee, but two factors stopped him.First, he risked blowing whatever operation they had in store.As soon as it was known that Bond and Trevelyan had forced their way out of Vauxhall with Q, a prospective enemy of the nation, Ponsonby and Lee would be implicated.Lee had placed a deliberately weak guard on their cells, and she hadn’t fought back with the ferocity they all knew she was capable of when the two double-0 agents stormed the cells.Ponsonby had, ostensibly, done nothing, but as soon as they obtained transcripts for the comm lines, she would be found out, too.No, they were on their own, now; no Ponsonby, no Lee, no MI6.No one to ask about Q.

Second, and of substantially less import, Bond had smashed Lee’s head against the table.He’d needed her knocked out, though it hadn’t been discussed as part of the plan.If she were awake, she would be obligated to follow.Had he been himself, Q would have said that Bond had employed excessive force, and perhaps he would have been right.Bond glanced in the rear view mirror again.The Quartermaster seemed to be in a state of shock, and Bond wasn’t sure how to bring him back.He’d always drank and fornicated and exercised his way out.He knew Trevelyan did something similar.He had no idea how to do the same for Q without harming him.Bond had no idea what would trigger him and what would be safe, so he couldn’t try, either.

He thought of Vesper, sitting on the floor in the shower in Montenegro, her mascara running down her face, her hair hanging limply against her shoulders where it wasn’t plastered to her skin.He thought of the shake in Sévérine’s hands as she spoke of Silva.Bond remembered them.With Sévérine’s pain, he had been careless; she was likely to die, though he rather pitied her.With Vesper, he had been careful, but her recovery had been her own: Bond remembered watching her put herself back together piece by piece until she was whole.Bond watched Q more than he watched the road.Q was strong, too.He could come out on the other side.

Bond damned his own impotence and pushed a little harder on the gas.

* * *

 

Ponsonby’s safe house was in Brackley, Northamptonshire, by a private airfield that wasn’t currently in use.It was a small place, but well outfitted.Neither Trevelyan nor Bond had ever used the place, nor could either agent remember it on any listing in the event of an emergency.Still, the code Ponsonby supplied served to open the door, and the usual instructions (protocols disguised as maintenance requests) were posted on the interior of the front wall.

As promised, the house was well stocked.There were weapons and many rounds of ammunition, as well as a hoard of knives, poisons, burnable mobiles, garrotes, and grenades.In the back of one of the drawers were three cyanide capsules.Bond left them where he found them.How Ponsonby had put the place together at the last minute, Bond could not guess.

He did, however, suspect that it had been set up like this for some time.Dust did not lie, and there was enough of it everywhere to suggest that the display wasn’t meant for them.

Q coughed as Bond led him to bed.

The safe house had four rooms: two bedrooms in the back with two beds each, a kitchen, and a living area.Someone had gone to great lengths to make it safe, but they hadn’t neglected to make it a house, too.It looked like it could be lived in, comfortably, for a long time.Looking out one of the back windows, Bond saw a small, overgrown vegetable patch.Out front, there were flowers.

Bond checked Q over as the smaller man sat on the edge of a mattress, his arms limp at his sides.Q grimaced as he sat, but otherwise said nothing.His clothes were clean and, Bond noted, not his own.They were a size too big for him, and they made him seem skinnier than he actually was.Q’s eyes were dull and absent.He had no bags to suggest that he hadn’t been allowed rest, but when Bond moved across his field of vision, Q didn’t bother to track him.He was sweating, and his chest rose and fell rapidly.Bond picked up Q’s wrist and felt for his radial artery.Q’s pulse was strong but erratic, and his overall heart rate was fast.

“You’re safe now,” Bond said, pulling Q in closer to embrace him.The younger man winced and hissed as Bond pulled.Frowning, Bond rolled up the sleeves to Q’s shirt.

Purple and blue bruises mottled his arms.His wrists were a mess from his bindings, and Bond thought he could see the grip of an arm.

“Nika Musiał,” Q said.

“If he was with Slater, he’s dead,” Bond said, “but if he were alive, I would kill him again.”He was careful not to squeeze Q any further, though he did not let go.

Q said nothing.His breathing was shallow and Bond was at a loss for how to help him.

“Tea?” Bond asked finally.Q made an indeterminate noise that Bond decided was a yes.

Bond made to stand, but Q’s arms tightened around him.Very carefully, noting every grimace of pain, Bond helped Q to his feet.While supporting Q’s weight, Bond saw Trevelyan’s head move past one of the windows, walking leisurely around the perimeter.It was an act, Bond knew; he looked as if he were surveying the property, but he was checking traps and security measures alike as he went.

Trevelyan didn’t know how to act around Q.More than his Quartermaster and Bond’s lover, Q was family to him.Bond frowned as he rummaged through cabinets, looking for a kettle and tea bags.

Bond found the kettle under the sink and filled it halfway with lukewarm water.He set it over a large, blue flame and waited.Behind him, Q had another coughing fit as he stood by the table, trying not to move.

While Bond waited for the water to boil, he thought to open the front door.If the dust was getting to Q, some fresh air might help.

“What are you going to do?”

Bond forced himself not to spin at the question.Q had spoken several words, of his own volition, and he had spoken them to Bond.The agent turned to face Q.For the first time in hours, Q seemed clear.

“Just opening the door for some fresh air,” he said with a smile.If Q had been himself, he would have chided Bond for the gesture: Q liked sincere expressions, not forced ones, and Bond did have to force himself.Worry still pooled in his gut like scotch after a long operation.

Q’s expectant look did not change, and after a moment of holding the door ajar, Bond realized that Q meant something else.Worry was joined by guilt; Q thought he was leaving.

Bond let the door click shut and returned to the table he’d sat Q down at.The water was getting ready to boil, and Bond prepared a mug of tea for Q.After a few moments, the whistle began to shriek, Q made to cover his ears only to shudder at the sudden movement, and Bond switched off the flames.He poured the tea quickly and spilled boiling water on one hand in the process.Holding the mug with the seared hand, he guided Q slowly to the front door with the other.He noticed that Q held himself rigidly as he walked, as if any twist in his torso caused him great pain.He would need to determine the extent of Q’s injuries, but the younger man’s grim expression told Bond that now was not the time.

There were a few stone steps leading from the front path to the door, and Bond and Q stood on the topmost step.Bond waited for Q to sit, but the quartermaster remained standing.Outside, the air was fresh and clean, and the sun was bright.Bees buzzed around a multitude of flowers, the last of the early spring bloomers.Most of the trees had already dropped their flowers, but Bond thought he smelled lilac on the breeze.

Bond placed the mug of steaming tea in Q’s hands and cupped them together such that he might warm his hands even before it was fully steeped.Sure that Q wouldn’t drop it, Bond sidled closer to his lover.

“Where you go,” Bond said, “I will follow.”

Q ducked his head over the mug, the steam hitting him full-on in the glasses.“My father,” Q started, the words getting stuck in his throat.Q made a face that Bond could not fully see, and the agent waited for him to continue.

“Anastas,” Q said.His tone was decisive.“He told me that someone in his inner circle hired Slater.My brother,” Q tried, but again, the words got stuck.“He and I were meant to die to negate his agreement with MI6.”

Bond said, “Whatever comes, I will protect you.I promise.”The words felt hollow to his ears.Where had he been when Q had been taken?Getting sloshed in his own flat, he remembered.He had considered calling Q, then had decided against it.He had thousands of if only’s floating in his mind, and none of them made a difference.

Still, Q took a sip of his tea, and Bond leaned closer to him.The agent held Q carefully, his arm wrapped around the scrawny man.After all of this, Q still trusted him to keep him safe.

The crunch of grass underfoot alerted Bond to Trevelyan’s incoming presence before he was visible.It was something that they had developed over the course of their friendship, a sort of warning system for each other.They had never verbally agreed on what constituted a go-ahead or a turn-back, but they recognized the signs all the same.Their signals had arisen shortly after they were both promoted.They were so often together, sharing beds and flats and guns, but at times it could get overwhelming.Bond had needed space after Skyfall, Trevelyan after Berlin.Both of them had felt the need for isolation after Siberia.

If Bond were to cough now, or else make any sort of noise, Trevelyan would disappear again.Bond remained resolutely quiet, and Trevelyan rounded the corner of the house, his hands in his pockets.Bond watched his friend as he approached and had to suppress a laugh.Trevelyan had told him that he’d been on vacation, but Bond hadn’t fully processed the implications.Trevelyan’s light suit, pale blue pants and a white linen top, were completely incongruous with everything.

“Perimeter’s clear,” Trevelyan said.“This might be the safest safe house I have ever seen.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bond said.

“All the same,” Trevelyan said, “we may need to set watches.”

Q cracked a smile, and Bond said, “We’re going to have the entirety of the Service hounding our steps, Alec.Setting watches only the first order of business.”

Q took another sip of tea and actually looked up at Trevelyan.Bond watched Trevelyan’s tentative smile turn to a genuine grin.While the butterfly that flew behind Trevelyan’s head was overkill, Bond thought that this was right.They were going to be all right.

Trevelyan’s grin faltered, though, and Bond knew Trevelyan wasn’t worried about MI6.

“Ponsonby texted me,” Trevelyan said.“It’s nothing good.”

“Tell me,” Q demanded before Bond could speak.Both agents looked to Q, who promptly busied himself by taking another scalding slurp of tea.

“There’s been a security breath in your division,” Trevelyan said.“Someone has been trying to frame you.Ponsonby didn’t say who.”

“What for?” Bond asked.

Trevelyan shook his head.“Bahrain.Siberia.Someone accessed the logs to make it look like Q gave intelligence to the enemy to blow both operations.”Bond felt Q wither and resisted the urge to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance for fear of harming him.“I haven’t heard any more from her, but it’s safe to say that they’re after her, by now.That’s probably the last forewarning we’ll get.”

“I didn’t,” Q said to Bond’s jacket.He clutched his ice pack closer to his stomach.Bond rubbed a circle into Q’s back, doubling back on the pattern to make a figure-eight.

“I know you didn’t,” Bond said.“We’ll need to move.”It was one thing to be a prospective enemy; if the evidence planted against Q looked at all convincing, they would need to evade more than MI6.

Trevelyan nodded shortly, then said, “Algiers was my first thought.”

“Algiers?” Bond asked.He flipped the figure-eight over so that he drew infinity onto Q’s back.

Trevelyan said, “Before I came to help you, I was there laying low.I told no one I was there, and when they find out, that’s the last place they’ll suspect.”He smiled briefly.“After all, I burned down the villa.”

Q coughed once, and Bond was worried until he realized that Q had laughed at Trevelyan whilst trying to drink tea.

Encouraged, Trevelyan said, “It wasn’t my fault.Honestly.”

“Aleksandr,” Q said, and Trevelyan stopped.

Bond stopped, too, his hand pausing mid-circle.He watched Q, but he didn’t repeat himself.

“That’s right,” Trevelyan said.He glanced once at Bond.“When I was adopted,” Trevelyan said, “they Anglicized it.Alexander.I was too old to take to it, though, so I’ve been Alec ever since.”

“Alec,” Q said.

Trevelyan grinned hugely.For the second time, though, his smile faltered.Bond wasn’t sure what he was looking for until Q spoke.

“Forgot your little brother’s name?” he asked.Trevelyan coloured, and Bond felt Q stiffen beside him.Q hadn’t intended to embarrass him.“They said they called me Genya,” Q said quickly.His voice was a little loud, but after a short breath, he quieted a bit.“My foster parents renamed me Colby.”There was a long moment, and Q said, “I guess I can’t go by Q, now.”

Bond and Trevelyan both tried to speak at the same time and ended up expressing similar platitudes.Bond said, “You’re your own person, Q,” just as Trevelyan said, “You’re my brother.”The agents looked at each other, and Q let out a sound that was rather like a giggle.

“Q, then,” he said.“Never liked Colby.”

* * *

 

Neither Trevelyan nor Q could cook, so Bond was stuck in the kitchen while Trevelyan and Q sat together, talking.Bond had bristled handing Q off to Trevelyan to look after for the next hour or so.He wanted Q to be safe and happy, and though Trevelyan was related by blood, they knew each other poorly.Reasonably, he knew, the only remedy for that was time, but Bond thought of himself at heart as a selfish man.He wanted to encompass Q all by himself, to protect him all by himself.To receive help, even unexpectedly, was something he had to adjust to.

It was a safe house, not a gourmet restaurant, but Bond made do with what he found in the cabinets and what was growing in the back yard, and all the while, he kept an ear trained on his friend and his lover.

They were talking about their childhoods, Bond realized.Things they had done when they were younger, places they remembered.Bond left them alone, and if he kept everything warm over a low flame for a while before he called them for food, he did not tell.

* * *

 

They spent two days in Brackley.Q let Bond take a closer look at his torso after the first night.Bond remembered the ransom video, and though he didn’t allow his fingers to linger where others had, he traced the lacerations with his eyes and mapped each individual mark. Nika Musiał, Bond thought.He wouldn’t forget the name.Bond cursed him seven ways to Sunday, and though he didn’t believe in such things, he hoped the monster burned in hell.

During Bond’s second examination, he quickly confirmed why Q coughed so often now and could hardly bend over: he had at least two fractured ribs.Given time, they would mend, but Q had to be in severe pain.Bond convinced him to take painkillers, though Q refused anything that could make him drowsy.

Other than his ribs, Q was mostly well.His bruises, initially covering his entire body in swaths of purple, subsided to brown and yellow blobs over the next two days.The cuts on his face, of which there were many, scabbed over, though Q had a tendency to pick at them.The marks on his wrists from handcuffs began to fade.Q still spoke in intermittent bursts, as if the very act exhausted him, but those bursts became more common.His hands still shook, and Trevelyan still fingered his mobile when he was nervous, and Bond’s stomach still did cartwheels at any given moment, but for two days, they healed.

On the third day, Trevelyan’s mobile went off.

Bond and Q had been talking when they heard the telltale buzzing.Q was sure that MI6 had taken hold of his belongings by now, and if they’d managed to crack his security, they would have realized that Q meant no harm to anyone within MI6.If anything, Q told Bond, his records would show blatant favoritism.

Though he already knew it, Bond would have been lying if he said that hearing it didn’t make him bristle with something akin to pride.

“Oh,” Trevelyan said, staring down at his mobile.

Bond waited.Trevelyan’s reaction was as close to shocked as the man could normally get.

Trevelyan rattled off a string of numbers, and Bond asked, “What?”

“The number,” Trevelyan explained.“I don’t recognize it.”

Trevelyan’s expression told Bond that it wasn’t just spam.

“ ‘They’re coming for you and Genya’,” Trevelyan quoted.“ ‘Get out while you can’.”

“Anastas,” Bond said, and Trevelyan nodded once, uneasy.

He said, “I don’t like this.”

Bond didn’t like it either, but he shrugged as if it didn’t matter, aware as he was of Q’s eyes on his back.“We knew they’d be watching.He wasn’t going to let MI6 kill or incarcerate his sons.”

Sensing his companions’ hesitation, Bond stood.“Q, you and I should get to packing.Grab anything that could be useful and do it fast.Alec, get us a way out.”

Both nodded.Trevelyan all but ran for the door, but Q stood shakily.Bond directed him to stand close while he began packing bags.All of the weapons and ammunition had to come, as did anything else that could be used for either offensive or defensive maneuvering.Until MI6 showed how they intended to proceed, Bond could only assume the worst: that they planned on shooting first and asking questions later, if at all.

“I’m sorry,” Q said.

“It’s me who should apologize, Q,” Bond said, wishing he could give the conversation his full attention.Q deserved more than a distracted response, but Trevelyan’s anonymous warning hadn’t given them a timeframe to work with.“I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”

“But it’s my fault.”

“You were born,” Bond said firmly.“If it weren’t for you, where would the rest of us be?”

Q lapsed into silence.He tried to help by holding the bags as Bond loaded supplies, but he was in such obvious pain that Bond ordered him to just stay with him.Trevelyan finished in time to help wrap up.The three surveyed the safe house with critical eyes as they stood in the door.

“Algiers?” Bond asked.Trevelyan nodded.“What, you’ve got a girl waiting for you?”

Trevelyan smiled.“You have no idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we conclude the first part. This work will go on hiatus until I finish the story, so when you don't see an update from me next week it's because I'm trying like mad to get this wrapped up! Wish me luck, and I'll see you all when it's over!


	25. Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks from Q's kidnapping, Moneypenny and Argall have a tête-à-tête.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have about 0 self-control. I'll post a few more chapters before I put this on hiatus to finish. Thanks again to mistflyer1102 for keeping me on track :)

_Two weeks from Q’s abduction._

Moneypenny dropped her handbag on a round table in a café in London and sat down.  The plastic of the chair dug into the backs of her thighs, and her feet ached from walking around London in her heels.  The café was mostly empty.  Outside, clouds roiled overhead.  The little bit of watery light that filtered through left the morning sky looking most like day-old dishwater.  The streets were muddy and pockmarked from yesterday’s storm, and the sky today promised further damage.

It had been two weeks since Bond, Trevelyan, and Q had escaped MI6 headquarters, one week since Moneypenny had been to Vauxhall.  Remembering the last look she took at her desk, stripped clear of all personal artifacts, left an ache in her chest that she didn’t want to consider.

Inside the café, warmly lit browns, creams, and yellows contrived to create a convivial atmosphere.  The two girls working behind the counter wore bright green aprons with their names handwritten on white name tags.  One of them had added curlicues to the ends of each letter.  They wore matching cherry lipgloss and smiled brightly at each customer who came in.  Moneypenny took a vicious bite of a scone she’d purchased at the counter and was dismayed to discover that it was good.  She rather preferred the weather outside to the atmosphere in the café—they were too happy, too bright, too clean.  Didn’t they know what was happening, what the world was coming to?

But of course they didn’t.  Moneypenny frowned sourly at the scone.  It had cranberries and apricots baked into it, and an orange sugar glaze coated the top.  According to the case she’d picked it out of, it had been “Baked with Love” earlier that very morning.  Someone had drawn a red heart after the “Love” part of the label.  Moneypenny took another bite of her scone and wished it didn’t taste so much like happiness.

There was a bell on the front door of the café, and Moneypenny’s attention jerked forward each time it rang.  Though she knew that it made it appear as if she were waiting for someone (which she was), she couldn’t help it.  The sound of the bell scared her every time, startling her as it did out of her reveries.  She had so much to think about, and too much time to process it.

Outside, the rain began, first as a light drizzle, just enough to wet the pavement, then as an all-out downpour.  People passing by put up umbrellas and walked on as if the sky were clear.  Children ran past, laughing at each other as they stomped in puddles.  Moneypenny ordered herself a tea and, when she was sure no one was looking, poured a dash of rum from the flask she kept in her purse.  She stirred the concoction vigourously and fought the urge to down it in one gulp.  She would burn her mouth quite badly, she reasoned.  But she desperately wanted a drink.

The bell at the front of the café clanged again, and Moneypenny sat up a little straighter.

After shedding her coat, the new arrival bought a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and caramel syrup.  After waiting the requisite few minutes at the counter, she approached Moneypenny’s table and sat down.  Tall as she was, Moneypenny found it amusing to watch her fold herself into her seat.  Already knowing the answer, Moneypenny glanced at the other woman’s feet.  As always, flat shoes.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Argall said, hanging her damp coat on the back of her seat.  Argall had that unnerving ability, to know what was going through one’s mind at any given moment.  Now, though, she eyed the pile of whipped cream on top of her chocolate hungrily.

“We can’t all of us be born with legs like yours,” Moneypenny said.  She, too, eyed the whipped cream.  She took yet another bite out of her scone.  For all that she’d bought it for the sake of appearances, it did taste fresh, and with each bite, it seemed to become more delicious.

“I’ll trade,” Argall announced grandly.  “Do you think Lynne would be willing to do it?  I’ve never heard of leg-swapping before, but I imagine we could be wonderful pioneers.”

Moneypenny stalled at the unfamiliar name, then deduced that Argall was talking about Longwood and smiled.  She moved her purse from the table to her lap to make more space.  Argall fiddled with a tiny, flat wallet that couldn’t have held more than a credit card and a few thin bills.

“How’s Mack?” Moneypenny asked carefully.  The code name sat ill on her tongue, and she watched Argall’s smile bloom across her face.

“Well,” she said, “he’s doing about as well as can be expected, without you there.  He’s got Meg’s dog running the show.  Pat’s been forced to take a step back.”

Langley was all but in charge, then, Moneypenny translated: Dolly Appleton had been set up in Moneypenny’s place, and everyone knew that Appleton and Langley were inseparable.  And Parry Kimberly had been moved out of the way.  It was easy enough to see why: Kimberly had been one of Ponsonby’s early advocates, and Langley had called for her immediate resignation, followed by harsher consequences.  Moneypenny asked tentatively, “Is he still angry?”

Argall’s laugh was short and false.  “At you?  That’s one word for it.  His friends still aren’t convinced that Lily’s little stunt a few weeks ago wasn’t all your doing.”

Moneypenny frowned.  Lily was Lee’s code name.  Three interrogations, two face-to-face meetings with MI5 officers, one sub-committee meeting later, and they still hadn’t cleared Moneypenny on charges of helping Lee and Ponsonby orchestrate Q’s escape.

Before she’d been asked to leave active service for a time—(“Just until this all dies down,” Mallory had promised.  Moneypenny had agreed, if only because Mallory looked exhausted and Moneypenny knew better than anyone how sharp was the knife that was now prodding him in the back.)—the footage had been all over every screen in MI6, and then in MI5.  Lee was with Q, and suddenly there was Bond, ruthless and vicious and altogether hardly human.  He’d slammed Lee’s face into the metal of the table, drawing blood, grabbed Q, and ran.  In the hallways, Trevelyan was seen to join him.  They shot at MI6 men, agents who had admired them from afar and who had trembled in their boots to try to stop them.  

Five were dead.  The rest were severely injured.

This, Moneypenny had learned before she was sent off.  Now, she relied on Argall for the latest updates from MI6.

“I do feel bad,” Argall said.  “I didn’t realize Petunia would go to such desperate lengths.”

Moneypenny smiled at the name.   _Petunia_.  Ponsonby wasn’t much like a flower.  “Has Mack found her yet?” she asked.  “I imagine he’s livid.”

Argall said, “She slapped him across the face and ran!  He’s still smarting from it.  No one’s seen her.”

This wasn’t particularly surprising to Moneypenny.  Last Argall had heard, Ponsonby had been on the run.  In the fallout of that fateful morning, Ponsonby had slipped away as if she had never been there in the first place.  Her computer had been wiped, her mobile was gone, and her office was positively empty.  Moneypenny suspected that Argall withheld many details about Ponsonby, for she hadn’t forgotten how much Argall admired the woman, but she couldn’t very well press the subject.  Argall was doing her a favor keeping her in the loop.  Not only that, but she was risking her job to do it.  Just because MI6 and MI5 and everyone else who’d gotten involved had cleared her of any suspicion, from the hints Argall dropped it seemed as if they were daily pulling in new people to interrogate.  They were desperate to find the rat who’d let Slater run wild.  Increasingly, they were inclined to believe it to be Q himself.  They were watching Argall carefully as a result, and any visible slip-up would be disastrous.

“Quentin’s files don’t lie,” Argall had said glumly on their last such meeting.  “It looks bad.”

“He wouldn’t do that to James,” Moneypenny had said, and she’d meant it.  They hadn’t felt a need to give Bond a code name.  His own name had served him well enough until now.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Argall had said.  “I talked to Petunia about it, too.  She agreed with us.”

“What did she have to say?”

But Argall had quietly demurred, claiming she had another appointment to make.

In the present, Moneypenny pressed on: “What about Lily?”  Argall wouldn’t give any good information about Ponsonby, so she would just have to settle for anything on Lee.

“Stateside, we think,” Argall said.  “After Lynne discharged her, she grabbed her husband and kid and got on the first plane.  No one’s seen or heard from her since.”

Moneypenny was well-acquainted with most of this story, too.  After the double-0s stormed Interrogation Room 20, Lee had been taken to Medical, where Longwood himself patched her back up.  Whatever Lee told Longwood must have been convincing because he never listened to a message left for him on his mobile relating orders to detain Lee, though he had to have seen the notification every time he used the device.  Instead, ostensibly because he didn’t know better, he let Lee leave not an hour after she was brought in.

“Worried about the family,” Longwood had told his interrogators.  “She said that she was worried her husband hadn’t managed to get her little boy into school.  You know how it is with them, what with her husband being blind and all.  What’s this about, anyway?”

Ultimately, Lee hadn’t left any evidence to suggest that she and Longwood had collaborated, and in the end, they’d let him off, though, like Argall, they kept a careful watch over him.

Argall’s information about Lee heading to the United States, though, that was new.

Moneypenny watched Argall in the bright light of the café.  She could throw off her trackers for about half an hour at a time, claiming she was messing with this code or that to improve the security screenings.  In truth, she was doing just that, only she’d written an algorithm to do it for her so that she could come meet Moneypenny instead.

“Does she have family there?” Moneypenny asked.  “Lily, that is.”

Argall made a face.  “I don’t think so.  She tapped on the table, and Moneypenny wondered if the other woman ever forgot that not everything had tablet functionalities.  “I don’t know a lot about Lily, to be honest.  I’ve never heard anyone talk about what she was like before she came here.”

Moneypenny frowned.  “Well, let’s hope Mack finds her before his friends do,” she said, then wished she hadn’t.  Argall looked sad at the prospect.  “Look, I know Lily’s your friend, but—”

“She committed a crime,” Argall said stiffly.  “I know.”

A silence fell over the two women, and outside, the rain beat down harder.  The little bell at the front door rang, and the two children Moneypenny had seen earlier playing in puddles darted inside, leaving water everywhere.  A tired woman with bags under her eyes and a tag sticking out the top at the back of her dress followed them inside.

“What about James?”

Argall smiled sadly.  “Quentin and James,” she said.  “I wish I could give you good news.”

“No news is good news,” Moneypenny said.  She wished it hadn’t sounded so much like a question.

“What would be good news for you?”

Moneypenny looked at Argall.  The tall woman took a long drink of her chocolate, whipped cream catching at the corners of her mouth.  It was a ploy to cover her face, but Moneypenny saw the deliberately blank look.  Argall was afraid of how Moneypenny might answer.

Moneypenny considered how best to proceed.  She needed Argall to keep coming back to her, to deliver her information.  Moneypenny didn’t want to be cut off from the pulse of the situation, just in case.

In case of what, she did not know.  In case Mallory needed her.  In case Bond needed her.  Moneypenny’s country, her friends, her career, and her lifestyle all hung in the balance of the discussions currently taking place in MI6.  Its boardrooms were now packed, and protocols were being mandated.  Questions were being answered.  Suspicions were being voiced, and decisions were being made, for good or for ill.  Moneypenny couldn’t afford not to know, and Argall was her only lifeline.

Argall.  All told, Moneypenny knew very little about the woman.  She had been picked, not by Q but by Mallory, following the Silva Incident.  The administrative position on Argall was that she was loyal to her country to a fault, and if Q ever tried to put pride and arrogance before the safety of anyone else again, she would stop him.  They were meant to be opposites in every way.

And yet, Argall and Q were friends.  They got along very well, and while Q technically outranked Argall, they tended to make executive decisions on Q Division operations together with their sub chiefs.  As for Argall herself, she was a liberal leaning woman, neither young nor old.  She had trained as a computational biologist and had spent several years in Denmark earning her PhD.  Bond had asked Moneypenny to look into Argall’s background back when he and Q had begun flirting with one another.  He, like many, had been under the impression that Q and Argall were together.

But Argall wasn’t one for relationships.  She tended to stay dispassionate and detached even during crisis situations.  Very little could get under her skin.

As Moneypenny had observed, though, Argall was worried about Q.  Argall didn’t believe Q to be guilty; in fact, if asked, Argall would claim Q had been framed.  Moneypenny tended toward that opinion as well, though she knew she was biased through their friendship.  Q wouldn’t hurt Bond, just as Bond wouldn’t hurt Q.  Not only that, but if Bond believed, even for a moment, that Q was working against him, he would have left the young quartermaster in that cell with Lee.  Moneypenny would have staked her life on it.

But Q, like Trevelyan, was a son of Anastas, and that had consequences.  In the eyes of MI6 at the moment, he had to be brought in, if only to bring his father in for eventual incarceration and, most likely, execution.  If Q or Alec decided to defend their prodigal father, then there was nothing Moneypenny could do to save them.  In that eventuality, Moneypenny wasn’t sure if she’d want to save them.  Anastas’ file was small, but the rumours that circulated about him were myriad and terrifying.  Anyone who had the gall to defend someone so terrible, so brutal—that could not be tolerated.

“I hope that they’re both well,” Moneypenny said.  Argall relaxed.  “I only want what’s best for both of them, you understand.”

Argall tensed again.  “What’s best for you that they do, you mean.”

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

The wind changed directions, and pellets of rain battered the glass at the front of the shop.  It had picked up speed, too; Moneypenny saw several people struggle past the café, their umbrellas turned inside-out by the rain.

Moneypenny sighed.  She’d have to walk back to her flat in this, or else try to hail a cab.  She had little hope of catching one, she knew, and she shivered at the thought of the rain.

“What would you do?” Moneypenny asked.

Argall’s hands slammed against the table, and Moneypenny jolted.  Argall’s face was red with fury.

“I’m already doing it,” she fumed.  “What are _you_ doing?  You’re the one who sits and waits for news like some kind of,” here Argall stammered, looking for a word and finding none.  Finally, she said, “You’re afraid, and you’re weak.  You can’t do anything because you’re paralyzed with the fear that somehow, you’re going to get hurt.  Well, let me tell you, he’s my friend, too.”

Argall stood, and Moneypenny sat still, unable to move.  “At least I’m doing something,” Argall said.

She turned and swept out of the café.  One of the girls behind the counter called, “Have a lovely day!”

The bell rang, and Argall was gone.

Moneypenny slumped back into her seat.  The plastic under her legs was sweaty now, and one of her feet was numb.  She closed her eyes and set her head in her hands.  Her purse tumbled from her lap to land on the floor, and she didn’t reach for it.

“Ma’am?  Are you all right?”

Moneypenny didn’t lift her head out of her hands, but she saw a green apron by the table and assumed it was one of the girls from behind the counter.  She spoke to Moneypenny as if she pitied her.

“Yes,” Moneypenny said, straightening up.  She realigned her spine, then looked up at the girl.  Her face told Moneypenny that she wasn’t convinced.  Moneypenny gave her best smile.  “Work trouble.”

The girl nodded vigorously.  “God never gives us more than we can handle,” she said.  “Give it your best shot, and I’m sure you’ll do great.”  She set down a cup that Moneypenny hadn’t noticed was in her hands.  Just as Moneypenny cursed her inattentiveness, the girl said, “This one’s on the house.  It’s made with love!”

The girl grinned and walked away.  Moneypenny pulled the cup towards her and inhaled.  Hot chocolate.  Though she’d eaten the scone and drunk all of her spiked tea, her stomach rumbled, and as if in answer, thunder crashed outside.  A hot chocolate couldn’t hurt anything.

Halfway through the cup, it dawned on her.

_“Give it your best shot,”_ the girl had said.  Moneypenny glanced at the counter, where the girl was now counting bills.

Moneypenny finished her drink and went to the counter.  She gave the girl a fifty and winked.

“Thanks for the inspiration,” she said.  “I think I can give it my best shot.”

The girl smiled hugely, and Moneypenny smiled back.  Argall could say what she wanted about inaction.  As she stepped out into the cold and wet of London, Moneypenny had a plan.

 


	26. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which R has many reasons to be afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks mistflyer1102 for all of the tremendous help with this chapter!!!

Two weeks after Ponsonby sent her home without so much as a ride and mere hours after Argall stormed out of a café in central London, R was at Cambridge, locking up her labs for the night.  The janitorial staff could do the job for her, but she liked seeing everything in order.  The students were all gone, and the halls were empty.  One of R’s favourite students, a girl named Fidda, had been last to leave.  R worried about her as she locked each area in turn.  The university’s stance on the niqab was mixed, but R had permitted Fidda to wear it within the labs as she wished.  As a result, though, Fidda received much unwanted attention from her peers, and her walk home was usually fraught with difficulty.  As Fidda left, R had offered to escort her to her room, late as the hour was, but Fidda had declined, disappearing into the dark of the night.

R’s stomach turned as she took the stairs from the labs to her office.  The labs R used for her own research and for instruction purposes were on the first floor, but her office was at the top.  R liked to joke that the stairs made students think twice about coming to her for questions, but that night, the extra effort had her irritable and anxious.

To tell the truth, she had been alternatively frenetic and terrified for the past two weeks.  Ponsonby had sent her home with nothing.  R had had to catch a cab at that unholy hour of the morning by herself, only to remember that she had morning lecture in a few hours and nothing prepared.  While MI6 was at a standstill looking for Q, life on the outside had gone on, and R had struggled to change gears when switching between the two.

Then had come the waiting.  The first two days, R had jumped at every sound.  If someone mentioned her by name or said anything that sounded remotely like “R”, she froze in place.  She very much expected the notorious Anastas to show up at the back of her lecture hall.  She also very much expected to be dead by Friday.

After those first two harrowing days and a great deal of sleep, R had felt jubilant.  They couldn’t find her, she was sure.  She was too good, she thought, though if she had been pressed on the matter she would have been at a loss to say _what_ she was too good at, as she had done nothing to hide herself.  Ponsonby had told her that if Anastas wanted to find her, no hiding place would suffice, and R had believed her.  After two days, though, R felt somehow that she had escaped some gruesome fate by some genius act.

But as one week stretched into two and the radio silence from MI6 and from any other interested party deepened, R worried.  She called MI6 once, only to be told that her services were not immediately required.  The rather condescending woman she spoke to informed her, however, that R would be welcome to call back in the event that she gathered any information on the whereabouts of Ponsonby, Lee, Bond, Trevelyan, or Q.  The woman then hung up.  R had been quite put out.

She had no idea about any of the five of them.  For all she knew, Q was dead and Bond and Trevelyan were gallivanting across the globe, killing and seducing as they desired.  Reasonably, R knew that the portrait she had just conjured had to be false.  Anastas wouldn’t allow Q to die.  Whether through threat of nuclear holocaust or sheer force of will—though, R noted acerbically, those two things might be far from mutually exclusive—Anastas would ensure the safety of his son.  Bond would be with Q, and from what R had gathered, where Bond was, Trevelyan was close behind.  If the three of them had decided to drop off of the map, as the woman R had spoken to had inadvertently suggested, they would be difficult and dangerous to find until they decided to return.

As for Lee and Ponsonby, R was very confused.  She understood that she had been made privy to a meeting that wouldn’t make it to any official MI6 record.  She understood, too, that what had been discussed could be understood as treasonous.  Ponsonby’s allies, for lack of a better term, wanted Q safely returned and, R thought, made safe from MI5 and MI6 alike.  R had thought about what they all gained from such an arrangement and could only conclude that Ponsonby, being very protective of her double-0 agents, wanted to make sure that Bond’s boyfriend made it out safely.  It was a weak explanation, but R could come up with no other and so she stuck with it.  Perhaps someone had found out about their conference and Lee and Ponsonby had run?  It didn’t seem likely to R: both women struck her as the type to stand their ground.

R climbed the second staircase, taking two stairs at a time.  Her backlit reflection in the warped glass of the stairwell frowned back at her.  It was late and she was tired.  Whatever MI6 did or did not do did not concern her when the problems weren’t based in nuclear thermodynamics.

The hallway for her floor wasn’t lit.  It wasn’t supposed to be lit, as everyone else was likely gone, but R shivered nonetheless.  As a student walking these same darkened halls at night, R had felt a very real fear.  She used to clutch her books closer to her chest and say a prayer, always sure that some monster lurked in the dark, ready to drag her screaming into the abyss.  She had never told anyone about her private fear of the dark for fear of being seen as childish.

Now, as an adult and a professor, R’s fear of dark halls and of dark places in general had hardly changed.  She still shuddered and held her belongings close, as if they were talismans or wards against the shadows.  She still considered breaking into a run, if only to get out of that oppressive, silent dark faster.  Knowing that the building was empty, R very nearly did make the quick sprint to her office.

Instead, R walked calmly to the wood paneled door and made to lock it.  As she did, she looked down.

There was light oozing from under the door.  R stared dumbly at the strip of warm light at her feet.  If there was light there, there was light inside.

There was a light on in her office.

R’s endocrine system kicked into high gear almost immediately.  Fear washed over her, and suddenly her hand on the knob of the door felt like a bad move.  She withdrew, stepping back into the middle of the hall, then came forward again.

Though her hands continued to shake from the adrenaline response, R forced herself to grab the handle and twist, pushing the door to her own office in.  It was _her_ office, after all.  She had just left a light on.  She did that, from time to time, by accident.  It didn’t have to mean anything.

Still, R threw open the door with far more force than necessary.  It slammed against the wall, generating a loud bang, and swung back at her.  R caught the door and stepped inside.

The overhead lights were on, as was the light on her desk.  Her office was conspicuously empty.  No assassins lurked under her desk or in the broom closet or on the ceiling (R checked).

With a sigh, R sank into her chair and slumped in place.  She smiled to herself, though she still shook too much to laugh.  She had gotten herself worked up over nothing.  If Anastas were going to come to kill her, he would have done it by now.

Someone knocked on her office door.

Adrenaline flooded R’s system again, and her hands shook.  The knock was polite, but firm.

“Who is it?” R called.  She kept a level voice, but her pulse had jumped and was still rising.  There was no answer from the other side.  Cursing her shaking legs, R stood.  There was no peephole in the door to look through.  In fact, the door’s only feature, other than very lovely panelling and a pristine knob, was a single lock that R had never trusted to do its job.  She had considered having Q Division install her a real security system, but she had felt silly to think of asking.  She was paranoid from so much time alone in such a stressful occupation.  Nothing was coming for her.

A second knock came, more insistent.  R opened the door a crack.

Fidda, backlit by the hall, stared at her.  “May I come in?” Fidda asked.  She stuttered on the “m”.

R threw the door wide open.  “Of course!” R said.  “So sorry, didn’t know it was you.  Are you all right?”

Fidda rubbed her left wrist and looked to one side.  “Yes,” she said, speaking slowly.  “I am well.  I was sent to deliver a message for you.”

R felt her smile go stiff and went to stand at the back of the room.  If she sat, she felt that she wouldn’t be able to control her limbs.

“Go on,” R said.  “Who did you come across?  Not one of my other students, I hope.  That they would make you walk all of the way back here, in the dark…” R clicked her tongue to demonstrate a cheerfulness she didn’t feel.  “It’s not right.”

Fidda continued to rub her arm.  “I wasn’t sent by a student.  He’s a man, a stranger, said it was urgent.  He drove me back here.”

R let her smile drop.  Fidda wasn’t looking at her, so it didn’t make sense to keep up the charade.  “Did he hurt you?” R asked.

“No,” Fidda said.  “But he’s enormous, and he terrifies me.  He asked me to leave you a message.”  Fidda hesitated.  “He had a gun.”

R crossed the room to stand before Fidda.  Ever conscious of personal space since a departmental meeting in which the topic was covered extensively, R did not act on her impulse to take the girl by the shoulders and embrace her.  Instead, R said, “What was the message.”

Fidda sniffed, and R realized that she was trying not to cry.  “He said, ‘Anastas is coming’,” Fidda said.  “I don’t know what it means.  He told me to tell you to meet him at the curb just outside.  I’m sorry, Professor, I just got scared—”

Training be damned, R pulled Fidda in tight for a hug.  “It’s all right,” R said.  “It’s all right.  There’s nothing wrong with being frightened.  It’s probably just a misunderstanding.”  The words served to convince neither Fidda nor R herself, and she felt foolish for having said them when she knew quite patently that it was not a misunderstanding.  “What can you tell me about this man?”

“He’s huge,” Fidda said.  “A very big man.  He didn’t speak very much.”

“You’re sure he had a gun?”

Fidda nodded slowly.  “When I was walking home,” the student said, “he pulled up alongside me and asked if I was coming from Cambridge.  When I said yes, he pulled it out and ordered me to get into the car.  He had a gun in his jacket.  I couldn’t run, I was afraid he’d shoot.”

R’s mind raced.  Anastas had sent someone.  It couldn’t be to kill her because the message clearly indicated that Anastas was coming, either to meet  or to kill her himself, but no matter the case, she would survive the night.

She smiled as brightly as she could.  “Fidda, you’ve been very brave,” she said.  “I want you to stay here for the night.”  She reached into her pocket and extracted the set of keys she had been using to lock up.  “I want you to hold onto this, and when I’ve left this office, I want you to lock the door behind me and not open it for anyone until I give you the signal.”

“What signal?” Fidda asked.  Her eyes shone with hope and fear.

“I’ll text you,” R said, thinking fast.  “I’ll text you if it’s all clear.  If you don’t hear from me, stay put until morning.”

“How will I know it’s you?  Shouldn’t we call the police?”

R shook her head.  “I can handle this, I’m sure.  There are blankets and a pillow in the broom closet that you can use.  Please, make yourself at home.  I’ll come back.”

“But Professor—”

“No ‘but’s,” R said, winking at her student with false bravado.  She collected her belongings in her purse and took a steadying breath.  “I’ll be back soon.”

Fidda did not protest as R left the sanctity of her office, closing the door behind her.  From the inside, the lock flicked into place, and R was alone in the hall.

Fidda had turned the lights on in the hall, but they did nothing to cheer R’s mood.  She clutched her bag at her stomach and leaned against the far wall to stare at her office door.  Her students would be fine, R realized.  Anastas’ man had returned Fidda to R scared , but not worse for wear.  She hadn’t been disheveled in any way or hurt, just terrified for her professor.

R took a bracing breath and headed for the stairs.  Dallying wouldn’t make the problem go away.  She considered calling MI6 but decided against it.  They hadn’t sent her back with protection the first time she had a brush with Anastas.  In all likelihood, she would just be sending agents to die if she tried to contact anyone now.  R straightened her posture as she went down the first flight of stairs.  She could do this.  She had to.

Regardless of what she told herself, though, she had to sit down upon reaching the first landing.  The railing felt cold in her hands, and her sweaty palm left a damp print.  Her stomach was ready to turn inside out, and her head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton.

R forced herself to stand back up and go down another flight of stairs.  If she didn’t go down, whoever it was would just find another student to terrorize, or worse.  Against every fiber in her body, R took one stair at a time, acutely aware of the sweat as it pooled in the armpits of her jacket and in the space between her shoulderblades.

As Fidda promised, there was an unmarked car waiting at the curb.  R didn’t recognize the model, but she wasn’t a car person to begin with.  The passenger door opened, and R approached slowly.  She did not look at the driver as she slid in.

“R,” the driver said.  “Thank you for your cooperation.”  His voice was very deep, and very soft, almost melodic in its quality.  R frowned and swallowed back bile.  He sounded British and entirely unlike anyone R had imagined meeting.  She craned to face him.  He was huge and darkly clothed, no more than a shadow in the dark of the car.  She did not recognize his face immediately, but she had the distinct sensation that she had seen him before in a photograph.  He continued, “I want you to buckle in.  Keep your hands folded on your lap.  Otherwise, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

R did as ordered.  The key turned in the ignition, and the vehicle began to roll.  R clasped her hands together, squeezing tightly to keep them from shaking.  The effect was that, while her hands were still, her arms vibrated in time with her frantic pulse.  Sweat rolled into her eyebrows, and she wiped it on her sleeve to avoid letting go of her own hands.  

In the dark, she had no concept of where they were going.  Geography had never been her strong suit, and she never paid attention when wandering the Cambridge area.  Soon, though, they hit the M11 and R realized that they were headed into London.  She risked a glance at the driver, who yawned without looking at her.  He, at least, seemed relaxed.  Why hadn’t she been blindfolded or shoved into the back seat?  Why let her know anything at all?

They drove for an hour and a half in absolute silence before the vehicle came to a full stop.  They drove into London from the north, and R was quickly mesmerized by the passing lamps.  The predictable pattern of light and darkness soothed her nerves, if only momentarily.  They parked before a series of dark, nondescript buildings.

“This way,” the driver said.  R tried to see him, but even with the street lights around, he was more of an inkblot than a person.  He got out, and R stumbled after him.  Her arms were tight and her legs were stiff after the ride.

She considered running, but there was nowhere to run to.  The lights were out in every building so far as she could see.  Not only that, but the driver, whoever he was, was undoubtedly more athletic than R.  She could run, but she wouldn’t escape.  She wobbled a little on her feet until he came to grab her arm, bodily hauling her up the few stairs to one of the plain buildings.

He punched a few numbers by the door.  The lock clicked and the driver held the door for R as she stepped inside, assisted by a gentle but firm push to her back.  There was an elevator, but the driver took the stairs.  He prodded her up ahead of him, and though he didn’t rush her glacial pace--R thought that if she climbed any faster she would vomit onto the cheap plastic--he kept her moving.  Up one, two, three floors, the man stopped at a blank wall.  He placed his palm against it, and a panel illuminated beneath his fingertips.  After the quick scan, a door-sized panel shifted and moved aside, revealing a small but comfortable flat.

R stepped inside, and the driver turned on the lights as he said, “Sorry about all of this, ma’am.”

R blinked several times more to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.  The driver looked rather sheepish.  He removed his coat then asked, “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“What?” R asked.  Her voice was a croak.

The man frowned.  He rolled up his shirtsleeves and stepped past her into what R quickly discovered was, in fact, a kitchen.  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” he repeated.  “Or do you prefer coffee?”

R snapped, “No, I mean, _what_?”

The man sighed, then shook his head.  “Ponsonby didn’t tell you.”

“What?” R asked, for the third time.  Why was Anastas’ man talking about Ponsonby?  A chill ran up her spine.  Then again, why was an international terrorist’s driver asking her if she preferred tea or coffee?

The man cleared his throat.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.  We got off to a bad start, I’m afraid.  I’m Fourteen.”

R, whose nerves were shot, said, “Funny, you don’t strike me as a day under twenty.”

The man said, “Not quite.  0014, at your service.”

R took several bracing breaths.  Her blood pressure dropped precipitously, and she had the sensation of being deprived of oxygen.  Shutting her eyes made it worse, so she said, “0014.”

“Yes, precisely.  Of Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” 0014 said.  “License to kill and all that, for all that it’s worth now.  Langley dissolved the section when she became chief, so we’re all at sixes and sevens.”

R crossed the room to sit on a sofa in what she had already decided was a living room.  She held her head between her knees and counted to ten.

“That probably wasn’t the best introduction, was it?” 0014 asked.

“No,” R said.  “No, it wasn’t.”

0014 came to sit across from her.  He certainly looked like a contract killer, with the heavy brow, deep-set eyes, and severe lips, except he was rather too handsome.  On second thought, he looked like he belonged on a polo field.  “Well,” he said, “I believe I owe you several apologies, then.”

R rubbed her eyes.  “I thought MI6 wanted me out of their hair.”

“Oh, they do,” 0014 said.  He sounded pleased at the prospect.

“Then why are you here?” R asked.  The answer came to her even as she posed the query.  Her hands were certainly shaking now.

0014 did something with his mouth that R would later suppose was meant to be a smile.  “Oh, no,” he said.  “If they wanted you dead, your corpse would have turned up weeks ago.”

“Thanks,” R said, her mouth dry.

0014 didn’t notice her discomfort.  “I had to wait until they stopped tailing you,” he said.  “It’s been a few days since one of your ‘guards’ showed up, so I reckon they’ve cleared you.  Six and Seven might be fine shooting at friendlies, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.  I’m all for bashing skulls in, otherwise I’d be in the basement pushing papers, but that’s not my style.”

“What?” R asked, baffled.

0014 looked at her for a long moment before the terrifying excuse for a smile returned.  “They really did cut you off,” he said.

“Tea,” R said after a beat.  “Milk, no sugar.”  0014 rose, and R asked, “May I text one of my students?  You terrorized her as she was leaving and now I have her staying in my office.”

0014 shook his head.  “You’re phone’s being tapped,” he said sympathetically, “so yes, but I’d be much obliged if you give as few details as possible.  I said it once and I’ll say it again, but I don’t like shooting at friendlies, and if they find out we’re here, well.”  His back was to R, but she imagined that his face was impassive.  “I never liked this house, but it’d be much worse riddled with bullet holes.”

“You _terrorized_ her,” R snapped.  “She’s terrified.”

“I know.”

“You don’t sound entirely apologetic.”

0014 shrugged as he leaned across the counter to the top shelf of a cabinet.  Blue flames licked the bottom of the kettle on the stove beside him.  “She would have been scared anyway,” he said, turning back to her.  He had a box in his hand, and he pulled a plate from somewhere R couldn’t see.  “I don’t look like the person you want to meet at night, and that’s before you know what I do for a living.  Biscuit?”

R verbally accepted the offering as she dashed off a quick note — “Hope you get home OK” — to Fidda.

The kettle began to whistle, and 0014 set the box of biscuits and the plate down in front of R to switch if off.  R took the liberty of setting out several biscuits as 0014 returned with two cups of tea, one for each of them.

“Milk, no sugar,” he said to R.  She held the cup in her hand warily.  “Don’t worry,” 0014 added.  “It’s not poisoned.  Not how I like to do business, anyway.”

The question slipped out of R’s mouth before she could reel it back in: “And how do you like to do business?”

0014’s expression darkened, and he did not respond.  R busied herself by shoving a biscuit into her mouth and taking a mouthful of scalding tea nearly simultaneously.

A sound nearly made her choke: 0014 was holding his stomach, trying to hold in an obnoxious laugh.  “Oh,” he said.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, that was cruel.  But you should have seen your face—”

Tired and utterly not in the mood for games, R swallowed as best as she could and set back.  “Tell me you didn’t terrify one of my best and brightest and kidnap me just for laughs,” she ordered.  “Otherwise I’m calling Moneypenny now and we’re all bolloxed.”

0014’s expression darkened again, and R didn’t think it was for show, not this time.  “I wouldn’t do that,” he said.  “They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Really,” R said.  She meant to sound brave, but the statement came out flat.

“Really,” 0014 said.  He rolled his teacup between his massive hands.  “I should know.  I’ve gotten those orders before.”  He grimaced.  “Go ahead, ask.”

There were many questions nagging R.  Was 0014’s aversion to shooting at “friendlies” an acquired taste?  What had happened to 006 and 007 that they had to fire on MI6 employees?  Why was 0014 in MI6’s bad books with R?  R had a suspicion that she knew why she was being cut off—in a word, _Ponsonby_ —but what else was going on?

“Ask what?” R said, trying to be evasive.  She didn’t trust the man sitting across from her, not in the slightest.

“We’ve got all night,” 0014 said, “and I’m not letting you out of my sight until the sun rises, so you might as well ask.”  He settled back into his seat.  R fixated on the upholstery.  It was cream-coloured, but it sported several dark gashes of stains in odd places.  The furnishings, from the coffee table between them to the rug underfoot, had obviously seen better days.

R started with what she thought was the simplest.  “What happened?”

0014’s mouth contorted.  “I’m assuming you’re asking about what happened two weeks ago,” he said.  R nodded once.  He sunk a little deeper into the cushions.  “Ponsonby told me she brought you to her little treason party,” 0014 said.  R felt her face go hot.  “Not long after you left, Anastas landed.”

“Here?” R asked.

“Here,” 0014 confirmed.  “Mallory got a military airfield cleared for the purpose.  They got your team and Q back for the price of the hostage Six and Seven took in Berlin.  I don’t know what you said to Anastas to make him roll over, but good on you for it.”  R smiled and looked at the rug.  “Mallory wanted Q interrogated, thought he’d turned against the Service.  He had Six and Seven locked up, for all the good that did him.  Of course, who shows up at Q’s cell but Lee herself?  Ponsonby had worked out a plan between Lee, Six and Seven.  Lee starts throwing softball questions, more like a therapy session than an interrogation, buying time for Six and Seven to break out.  They grabbed Q and ran.  No one’s seen or heard from them since.”

“You mean 006 and 007 kidnapped Q from MI6,” R said.  “They attacked MI6 agents.”

“You are correct,” 0014 said, taking care to enunciate for effect.

“But why?” R blurted.

0014 chuckled.  “Have any siblings, ma’am?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been in love, then?”

R coloured again, but she answered honestly, “No.”

0014 examined her with a critical eye.  “I suppose you wouldn’t understand, then.  But Six and Q, they’re blood-bound, you might say.  And Seven has been head over heels for Q for quite some time.  You don’t think that a passing fancy would have been enough to justify any of Seven’s earlier actions, do you?” R bit her bottom lip.  To be honest, she hadn’t thought too much about 007’s motivations for going after Q.

“Love and family,” 0014 said.  “In our training—after we’re promoted, we’re trained further, you know, in preparation for further kills and bloodier assignments—we’re taught that those are some prime motivators.  Not just for crime, either.  Love and family.  They make a man do mad things.”  0014 smiled.  “Of course, that’s what we’re taught to target.  Make them love you, take the family, if you can.  It’s the easiest way for you to get in, and the hardest for them to get out.”

0014 had a dangerous gleam in his eye, and R shuffled back a little.  She knew nothing about him, but as he spoke she was reminded of what he did.  R had a vague picture of dead bodies and conquests, amongst other things, and it turned her stomach.

“But now’s not the time for that kind of talk,” 0014 said quickly.  R realized that she had been quiet for a very long time.  “The sun’s almost up.”

“Is it?”  R breathed through her mouth.  Her tea was cold, but she drank it anyway.

0014 collected the biscuits and the teacups and returned them to the kitchen.  R flexed her fingers, free as they were of the cup.  Her hands still refused to shake.

The sound of running water and the swish of sponge against ceramic brought R to her feet.  It was more of a conditioned reflex than anything, as R’s mother had insisted that everyone help wash the dishes after any meal, but R dutifully rose to help the killer standing in the kitchen.

“You should be wearing an apron,” R said, looking around for a dish towel.  She found several hanging from hooks in one of the pantry doors.

“It’s Three and Seven who have the expensive wardrobes,” 0014 said.  Standing next to him, R realized just how small she was.  He could snap her just as easily as he could a toothpick.  “I don’t mind the splashes overmuch.”

R took the dishes as they were finished and dried them.  She didn’t remember where 0014 had pulled them from, so she set them in a pile off to the side.  She looked outside as she mopped up the excess water from the grooves of the cups to see that the sky was indeed lightening.  It was a brand new day.

“I don’t suppose you can take an extended leave from Cambridge,” 0014 said.

“No,” R said.  “Well, I could.  But I’d rather not.”

0014 nodded.  “It’s just as well.  I’ve got a good alias.”

“Pardon me?”

0014 wiped down the sink after finishing with the last of the dishes.  “Ponsonby wanted me to look after you,” he said.  “That Anastas was willing to listen to you at all had her suspicious.  She’s worried he’ll come knocking.”

“Wouldn’t that have happened by now?” R asked.  “I thought we were past that.”

0014 shook his head.  He leaned against the counter, and a line of moisture soaked into the back of his shirt.  “Not quite,” he said.  “I haven’t had much communication with Ponsonby, but last I spoke to her, she suspected that there was some infighting in Anastas’ circle.  After all, what madman would kidnap Q knowing he’s that monster’s son?  Slater was a well-established dealer with ties to the circle.  Ponsonby thinks someone bought her out to go against the big guy.”

“Why would that matter?”

0014 said, “Because Anastas has power, but he likes to take care of one thing at a time.  He’ll flush out the rat first, if he can, before turning to you.”

“Why would he turn to me?” R asked.  The first rays of sunshine were peeking out over London despite some heavy cloud cover.

“You study nuclear thermodynamics,” 0014 said, “and he’s an arms dealer who happens to dabble in nuclear smuggling.  Why wouldn’t he want you?”

 


	27. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond and Q are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks mistflyer1102 for all of the help!!!

Two weeks wasn’t enough to heal Q’s broken ribs, but it was enough to get him top quality pain medicine so that breathing deeply no longer hurt so badly.  Q could move, but bending and twisting sent spikes of pain across his body unless he went very slowly.  Bond and Trevelyan had conspired to keep Q all but bedridden until he healed, but Q had never been one to take orders he didn’t like lying down and had staged his own quiet rebellion.  The two double-0s had begrudgingly accepted that they could not keep the quartermaster down, injured though he was.  They had, however, insisted that Q not go anywhere without one of them.  After the time he’d had, Q readily complied.

Trevelyan had flown a tiny plane from England to Algiers by himself.  Bond had remained in the back with Q, remembering quite rightly that Q hated flying.  Bond had held his entire body close throughout the flight, and Q had felt safe.  If pressed, he might have fallen back on an impersonal explanation: when traveling with two highly-trained agents who had repeatedly shown that death was impermanent, one was naturally emboldened.  The real reason he wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, though, had more to do with the fact that it was his boyfriend who was holding him and it was his brother who was flying the plane.  Even if they crashed, Q wouldn’t be alone, and neither man would willingly abandon him.

Q’s first impression of Algiers had been half—that is to say, with his face half buried in Bond’s coat as he carried him out of the plane to a waiting car.  How Trevelyan had arranged pick-up at first eluded Q, but then he remembered one of the many conversations from the safe-house in Brackley and recognized the severe burns on the right hand of the woman who met them.  Her name, Q learned, was Ines.  She was pretty, not beautiful, but she had an enormous smile full of crooked teeth and a melodious laugh that never failed to elicit a matching sound from Trevelyan.  Q promised himself to look into her as soon as he was well enough.

Algiers itself was wonderful.  Even though it was much hotter than Q was used to, something about the air felt clean and fresh, entirely unlike London.  White, colonnaded buildings ran up to meet the sea by the harbor.  Q smelled coffee, mimosa, and heady spices by turns.  Ines lived near the harbor, close to the villa Trevelyan had managed to burn down.  (The agent insisted he wasn’t responsible, but even after hearing the explanation, Q wasn’t sure if he believed him.)  Bond had suggested staying at a hotel, but Trevelyan had rightly pointed out that MI6 would have eyes everywhere looking for them, and Ines insisted that she be allowed to show them proper hospitality.

Hospitality, as it turned out, was a massive meal full of dishes Q’s painkiller-addled mind couldn’t begin to pronounce.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and neither Bond nor Trevelyan had stopped since the morning Q was taken, so the food was gone in record time.  Ines just laughed and brought out more.  Q couldn’t begin to fathom how long it might have taken to cook.  He would have felt guilty if it hadn’t tasted so good and if he hadn’t been so hungry.

The next few days, when Bond and Trevelyan were still setting perimeters and traps and anything else that might alert them the presence of either MI6 operatives or anyone else who might come looking, Q got to know a lot about Ines.  They spent most of their time in a room on the second floor of the tall, narrow home she now occupied by herself.  Q sat or walked alternatively, trying to force his body to heal faster, while Ines wove.  She had an enormous loom where she beat colored fibers until they lay as she wished.

“I’ve always wove,” Ines said.  She spoke beautiful Arabic, and though Q often had to make her repeat phrases, he understood most of what she said.  “My mother used to, as did my grandmother.  Now I weave alone.”

Q watched her as she worked.  Her arms were stronger than they at first seemed, and her back was muscled.  “How long have you been alone?” he asked.

“Only a few days,” she said.  “I was living with my brother here.”  She laughed to herself, then said, “Alec scared him away, I think.  He told me that so long as the ‘Blond Devil’ was here, he wouldn’t be.”

Q asked, “Are you worried?”

“Worried that he’ll come back, or worried that he won’t?”  Q paused.  Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure which had the potential to be worse.  His eyes lingered on Ines’ burned, scarred hand as she answered before he could decide: “Not at all.”

After a moment, she said, “Though I will miss the labor.”  At Q’s confused expression, she said, “My brother used to take my tapestries down to the casbah to sell.  Now that I am alone, I cannot sell them without assistance.”

Q didn’t ask why she couldn’t go to the casbah, and Ines didn’t elaborate.

“You are James’ lover?” Ines asked.  The room had been silent for several long minutes, barring the steady thump of the loom and the shuffle of fabric.

Q flushed.  “Something like that, yes,” he said.  “I’m Alec’s brother, too.”

Ines started a little at that.  “He told me he had no family.”

“We only just found out,” Q said.  “We’d never met before—a few days ago, actually.”

Ines extended Q the same courtesy that he’d given her—she didn’t ask, and Q didn’t explain.  He wasn’t sure if he even knew how to explain to himself.

In bits and pieces, Ines and Q became clear to one another.  Ines had another relative, a sister who was studying in England at Cambridge.  Ines was very proud of her, and she spoke of her at length.  She would be the first of their family to get any sort of further education.  Fidda had a scholarship, and the rest was paid for with Ines’ tapestries.  Ines herself had stopped going to school when she was in her early teens, and that, she joked, was a long time ago indeed.  That had been when her parents had died, and taking care of her brother and sister was a full-time responsibility.  Q filed the information about the sister away in the back of his mind.  The brother could be taken or left, but the sister—Fidda, that’s what Ines called her—could be targeted if MI6 or anyone else learned of Trevelyan and Ines’ affair.  That was to be avoided.

When Q wasn’t with Ines, he was with either Bond or Trevelyan.  One of the days Q was with Trevelyan while Bond scouted the area, he took Q to visit a man who lived nearby.  Trevelyan had been very upset to learn that Ines couldn’t sell her work by herself, and none of them could very well do it for her.  They already stuck out enough.

The man Trevelyan had picked, though, insisted on a fee.

“I have children to feed,” the man said, and though Trevelyan knew it to be a lie, no one else he’d gone to had had so low a rate, and so he agreed. (If he threatened the man down a little, “just to keep him honest,” as Trevelyan said, Q would never say anything.  He liked Ines more and more each day, and it was obvious how much she was starting to mean to his brother.)

When Ines had her first sell with her intermediary, she had burst into tears.

“It’s the money,” she said.

Trevelyan’s expression darkened.  “That scum of a—”

But Ines had grabbed his hand and said, “No.  This is more.  Twice as much, easily, as anything I’ve sold before.”

Q had looked at his feet, looked anywhere but the pair of them as they collectively realized what manner of scum her brother had been.

When Bond wasn’t patrolling, which was less and less often, he was with Q, and Q was at his happiest.  Ines didn’t have enough rooms for each to have their own, but Bond had placed his few belongings in with Q’s in one room without any discussion, and when they were together, it was there that they stayed.

To be perfectly frank, Q still could not believe that Bond was with him.  Not just because Q had managed to attract and keep someone who could get just about anyone in his bed, but because he’d given up his life’s work—the service of Queen and Country—for him.   _Him_.  It made Q giddy, and a little ill.  He was simultaneously jubilant and terrified, and because he and Bond had already had their fair share of miscommunications in the early part of their relationship, Q did his best to get it on the table.

Only, getting it out there was rather difficult.

“I know you’ve made a choice,” Q said, seemingly for the hundredth time.  “But between me and the thing that you love—”

“Which are one and the same,” Bond interjected , leaning across a small table that sat by the window in their shared room.

Q sighed.  “We’re not going to be able to go back,” he said softly.

“No,” Bond said, just as soft.  “But there’s plenty of work for our type out here, and we don’t expressly have to work against our old employers.”

Q pulled a face.  “Are you considering mercenary work?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” Bond said.  Q leaned back, and Bond said, “We can’t stay here forever, Q.”  A giggle and a matching, deep throated laugh came from downstairs as Trevelyan and Ines laughed over some private joke.  “They will find us.”

“Give me access to a computer, then, and I can take us off of every grid,” Q answered.

“They’ll be looking for you,” Bond replied.  “We can’t risk it yet.”

Q took in a deep breath.  The doctor they had all collectively gotten him had told him—albeit shakily, mostly because he had two obviously dangerous men at his back as well as Ines, who Q had discovered liked to carry knives in her sleeves for self-defense—that he needed to take such deep breaths to prevent his lungs from collapsing, regardless of the pain it took to do so.  Now, the roaring ache was coming back, and Q reminded himself that he needed to take his medicine again.

“I’m just saying,” Q said, “that if you go back, it will be…”  He sought for a word.  “…Fine.”

After a long silence, Q looked to Bond.  Bond was looking back at him as if Q were something precious and beautiful.

“I’m not leaving you again,” Bond said, and that was that.

* * *

For two weeks, life went on much like that.  Ines began to teach Q and Trevelyan how to cook.  Q fancied that he caught on faster than his brother, but that might have been because he wasn’t distracted by the instructor.  Trevelyan made repairs to Ines’ loom when a crack formed down one side, and Q convinced Bond to take him around what he knew of the city and, of course, to get some delicious kebabs.

Q knew that they would have to leave soon.  They probably wouldn’t be able to take Ines with them, either.  But Q was happy, with Bond curling around him every night to sleep and with Trevelyan’s increasingly easy smiles and with all of them, together, as if it were meant to be, and so he chose not to think about it.

On the night of the fourteenth day, right at the two week mark, Q lay in the dark.  Bond lay beside him, arms and legs looped possessively around his Quartermaster even in sleep.  Though Q was ready to drop off himself, he thought of something:

 

_“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,_

_But sad mortality o’ersways their power,_

_How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,_

_Whose action is no stronger than a flower?”_

 

Q wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud until Bond, eyes yet closed and body still, continued: 

 

_“O how shall summer’s honey breath hold out_

_Against the wreckful siege of battering days,_

_When rocks impregnable are not so stout_

_Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays._

 

_“O fearful meditation! Where, alack!_

_Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?_

_Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot,_

_Or who spoil of beauty can forbid?_

 

_O! none, unless this miracle have might,_

_That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”_

 

Q watched Bond throughout, and after the couplet, Bond cracked open an eye.  “Afraid that our love will fade in time, love?”

The Quartermaster smiled.  “No,” he said, though that wasn’t expressly true and they both knew it.

Bond pulled at Q until they lay chest to chest, and Q tucked his head under Bond’s chin.

“I’m not leaving you,” Bond affirmed.

“I know you won’t,” Q said, breathing into the junction of Bond’s neck and torso.  “Not willingly.”

“Not unwillingly, either,” Bond said to the curls of Q’s hair.  “I’ve lasted this long.”

Q did not vocalize the question— _but how much longer?_

“Where you go, I’ll follow, so long as you still want me here,” Bond said.

“I will always want you here,” Q said, and even if nothing else, that was true.

“Then where you go, I will follow,” Bond spoke the words like a benediction, “without fear, shame, or doubt.  And that, because we will be together.”

“Together,” Q said sleepily.  Together sounded perfectly good to Q.


	28. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102!

“This is a terrible idea,” R moaned.

Privately, 0014 agreed with her.

Ponsonby’s plan had been to relocate R to her current (classified) location.  0014 had protested, but perhaps not as strongly as he should have liked.  She’d given him the man whose actions had nearly cost him his life in Bahrain.  0014 had taken great pleasure separating him from his spine.  He hadn’t been thinking about what came after so much.

Now, R was metaphorically dragging her feet, it was morning, and 0014 was having second thoughts.  R’s disappearance would do more than turn heads at Cambridge.  Mallory at the very least would remember that R was the one who negotiated with Anastas, and any unusual move on her part would arouse suspicion on theirs.  It didn’t help that MI5 was busy cocking up all of the usual operations in their bid to take over.  They rightly saw this fiasco as a chance to reinstate themselves, but they were doing it so badly as to be comical.

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” R groaned from where she lay on the couch.

“I’ve got to make a call,” 0014 said as pleasantly as possible.  He was aware that many would call him _intimidating_.  He was doing his absolute best to come across as non-threatening.  Based on R’s relaxed posture and behavior, he thought it was working.  Now, all he had to do was keep her from looking in one of the closets and they would be set.

With that, 0014 stepped into the kitchen and pulled up a number on his mobile.

There were two rings, and then: “It is one o’clock in the goddamn morning, so if this is a courtesy call, I can assure you that I’d rather disembowel myself than listen to your nonsense.”

“Good morning, Clarke,” 0014 said, still pleasant.  There were few he enjoyed ribbing more than 003—at least, the old 003.

“Christ,” the ex-003, Clarke, said.  “What the hell?  You call me _now_?”

“How do you know what time it is?” 0014 asked.

“ _Christ_ ,” he said.  “It’s a program— Forget it.  What the _hell_ , Walker?”

“Nothing, really, Clarke,” 0014 replied cheerfully.  “I need an opinion.”

More muffled curses came from the other end, then, “This isn’t about Ponsonby, is it?”

“Maybe,” 0014 said, drawing out the syllables.  In the other room, 0014 could hear R padding around, exploring now that she wasn’t face-to-face with a trained murderer.  Clever girl.  0014 really hoped she didn’t find the body stashed in the rear closet.  He wasn’t sure how to explain that yes, he had done that to his arms, and _yes_ , it had been absolutely necessary.  How were they supposed to stay in this particular safe house if there was already someone there waiting to take them both in?

“Good, then you talk to her.”

“No, wait—”

“Fourteen, status report,” came Ponsonby’s curt tones.

0014 shut his eyes.  “I’ve got R here,” he said.  “Safehouse 638.”

“And?” Ponsonby demanded.  “When’s your flight?”

“We haven’t scheduled one yet, ma’am.”

Disapproval radiated across the Atlantic Ocean.

“And why have you not scheduled one yet?”

0014 shut his eyes.  “If we move her, they’ll be suspicious.  They’re looking for us already.”

“Which is why she needs to be hidden.”

“No, we need to be hidden,” 0014 said plainly.  “They don’t suspect her of anything yet.  If we move her, she’ll be in more danger than she already is.”

“Well,” Ponsonby said, her tone indicating how much she thought about _that_ , “she knew what she was getting into when she signed up.”

0014 glanced at R, who was still avoiding the closet.  He had the feeling that she very much did _not_ know what she was getting into when she’d signed on.

“Be that as it may,” 0014 said, “we have very few ways to monitor MI6 from the inside at the moment.”

“You want to use her to infiltrate.”

0014 pulled a face.  His plan had been to send R back to Cambridge, have her teach her classes, and to follow her himself.  At best, R would go on with her life without further interruptions.  In the middle of the good-bad outcomes list, 0014 would take out anyone who came after her.  At worst, MI6 caught 0014 and he’d have to make it look like he was trying to kill R, not protect her.  He’d be done for, but the trail would go cold there and there would be no tie-in to Lee, Ponsonby, or the rest of the double-0 section, wherever they were.  He could plead insanity and pull the psychopath card, and with his reputation, would anyone really argue?  Of course they wouldn’t.

“Yes,” 0014 answered anyway.

Ponsonby was quiet for long enough that 0014 checked the screen to make sure the call was still active.

“Very well,” she said eventually.  “I leave her management up to your discretion.  Argall, Dvorak, and Misra, bless his merciless soul, are our current ins.  Of the three, Argall’s the only one who has been kept notified by the top, but watch her.  I’ve heard she’s been giving intel to Moneypenny.”

“Noted,” 0014 said.  “Would you apologize to Clarke for me?”

“For waking him at this unholy hour?  No manner of apology can remedy that sort of ill,” Ponsonby said sourly.  “Good night.”

“Good morning,” 0014 said.  His boss hung up on him, and that was that.

“Fourteen,” R called, “why does this closet smell like death?”

0014 whipped around.  Her hand was on the doorknob, but it hadn’t turned.

“Would you like the honest answer, or the reassuring one?”

R sighed and let her hand drop.  “You know what, I don’t want to know,” she said.  “Tell me we’re not going anywhere.”

“I would, but that would be a lie,” 0014 said.  “Come on, let’s go.”

“But this is a terrible idea,” R protested.

“Yes, it was a terrible idea,” 0014 agreed.  He checked the street before he brought her outside.  It was clear, and there was no way for anyone to be watching from any higher windows.  They had one clear shot.  “That’s why we’re going back to Cambridge.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” R said.

0014 smiled at the use of profanity.  “No,” he said, and they were off.

* * *

0014 thought about stashing R in the backseat on the way back up, but he didn’t want to worry her more than she already was.

“So, you’re just going to follow me around and make sure no one kidnaps me,” R muttered, staring out the window.  “Sure, I feel safe.”

0014 grimaced.  She was thinking of Q and 007.

“Tell me about yourself,” 0014 said.  It was a force of habit, really, and he’d never gotten out of the mission-mindset since coming back.

“And here I thought you knew everything,” R said.  0014 waited.  That she’d vocalized a response told him that she would talk about herself, eventually.

“I’m an only child,” she said finally.  “I bet you already knew that, though.”

“No,” 0014 lied, because of course he knew.  Ponsonby had told him all of R’s easily obtainable personal details, likely in the very order they were printed in R’s  personnel file back at MI6.

“Really?” R asked.  0014 looked away from the road for a moment to find that she was smiling crookedly.

“Really,” 0014 said smoothly.  “Parents?”

“My father’s in hospice,” she said, staring out the passenger window.  “My mother died when I was four.  Boat accident.”

“I’m sorry,” 0014 offered, though it seemed unnecessary.

“I picked physics on a coin toss,” R continued.  “My father used to say that I had a decision-making disorder, and he was right.  I had a coin-toss for everything.”

0014 asked, “What was the other side of the coin?”

R smiled.  “English literature.”

“That’s quite a set.”

“Well,” R said.  “It was between what I loved and what would give me a career.”

“Why not pick what you loved?” 0014 asked.

R didn’t answer.  “Why did you become a double-0 agent?”

0014 was too well-trained to show any sort of physiological response to the question, so though his natural response might have been to tighten his hands around the wheel and stiffen his body, he did not.

“I’m not sure that’s a question you want answered,” 0014 said honestly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, it isn’t.”

0014 could feel R watching him from the adjacent seat.  She was perceptive, in her own way.  “Do you not want to answer?”

“If I do, you’ll be afraid,” 0014 said, still honest.

R startled him by replying, “I’m already afraid.”

“Of me?” 0014 asked mirthlessly.

R hesitated before answering.  “Sort of.  No,” she amended, and 0014 thought she meant it.  “Afraid of what you could do to other people, maybe.  Not afraid for myself.  No, I’m afraid of…”  She trailed off, and 0014 waited for her to choose her words.  “I’m afraid of just about everything else, actually.”

0014 smiled thinly.  “I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to feel fear,” he said.

“You don’t like lying, do you?” R asked.

The smile widened just a touch.  “No, I don’t.”

“May I ask you why you’re a double-0 agent again?”

“You may.”

“But you won’t answer, will you.”

0014 shook his head.  “You’re afraid of the rest of the world,” he said simply.  “You don’t need to be afraid of me, too.”

 


	29. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moneypenny makes her move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for all of the support with this!
> 
> For real now, this work will be on hiatus until I finish. I'm working hard on it, even though I've got other projects and will soon be starting a thesis/grad school applications/the works. It'll get done, and I hope to see you all again when it happens!

Moneypenny was on a plane.

She had always loved flying.  Her parents had never been outside of England, and they had always spoken of how they wished they could travel.  They had considered Paris, but ultimately, it boiled down to fear, not lack of money, that kept them in place, and they remained in the small house they’d always had, in the neighborhood they’d been born, schooled, and married in.  Their own parents had certainly encouraged them to stay rooted in England.  Moneypenny knew little of her grandparents but that they lived tumultuous lives and sported scars and stories that they liked better hidden.

Moneypenny’s own wanderlust, however, had overtaken the wishes of parents and grandparents alike, and even as a student she had made a point to travel often and far.  She was fond of the Mediterranean, but then again, most were.  She’d travelled extensively in Asia doing the Service’s good work, but she was saving up to do something nice for herself.  It couldn’t properly be called a vacation if one was being shot at.

From the plump cushions of her first-class seat, Moneypenny eyed her tail: a balding man in an ill-fitted suit currently sweating like a stuck pig near the end of the section.  He’d been promoted right before take-off, likely through some coercion and bribery, and he’d been watching Moneypenny absently ever since.

She sipped a flute of champagne and smiled.  They thought her out of practice because she’d been sitting behind a desk for the past couple of years.  Well, she would have a thing or two to show _them_.

The plane’s destination was J.F.K. International.  Moneypenny had initially scheduled her flight to land in Philadelphia, but she’d changed her plans when she noticed her new friend.  It would be easier to lose the man in New York City, and from there she could execute her plan.  With her usual methodical precision, Moneypenny outlined it in her mind.  She’d travelled entirely within United States TSA regulations to minimize the amount of time in the airport.  There was no one to pay off right away, but if she thought anyone intended to waste her time, she had a nice wad of US dollars in her purse to pave the way with haste.  From New York, she intended to head south, towards Philadelphia.  She was acting on memory, training, and gut feeling alone, but that had served Bond well enough in the past, so why not?

Leiter would be her first play.  He knew Bond well enough, and he always had one eye on England.  MI6 had allowed no other international agency to learn of the defect of its own agents in this particular instance, but if anyone could help her at this point and keep quiet about it, it was him.  All she needed to do was head for Washington, D.C.  Moneypenny suspected she wouldn’t even have to make that much noise.  If nothing else, he would be curious.

The thing was, people didn’t just drop off of the map.  Double-0s could get away with it because their missions were often in third world countries with limited surveillance.  Going undetected was part of their skill set.  For people like Loelia Ponsonby, Yin Lee, and Q, such a disappearing act would require similarly trained help.

That’s where Moneypenny’s gut instincts and training kicked in.  Logic would dictate that, in the aftermath of Q’s treasonous jailbreak, it would be every man for himself.  Going off together increased the threat of detection exponentially.  

That being said, Moneypenny could guarantee that Bond and Q were together.  Bond wouldn’t leave his lover after all of that, and Q, for all of his fantastic skills with a computer, was only human, and between MI6 and MI5 he would have been found had he been alone.  So, they were paired up somewhere, and to be perfectly frank, Moneypenny privately wished them the best.  Bond had been the best in the business but he was getting old, almost at mandatory retirement, and Q’s work tended to weave in and out of the realm of legality.  Neither would actively work against MI6 and so once the talk of treason died down and Q was cleared on all suspicions, they would be conveniently ignored.

Trevelyan, on the other hand, was a problem.  The older of Anastas’ sons and by far the more destructive, the likelihood of his following in his father’s footsteps was quite high in Moneypenny’s estimation, and she knew from Argall that MI6 considered him in much the same light.  He was a loose cannon, a bomb with a lit fuse, and every field agent in the Service had, in the past two weeks, learned his face and been told to shoot on sight.

Moneypenny hoped to whatever god existed that Trevelyan wasn’t anywhere near Bond and Q.  She had no idea what any of them thought of family, but if Bond and Q were there when they invariably found Trevelyan, the damage was guaranteed to be catastrophic and she couldn’t see a good outcome for any of them.

Ponsonby was problematic in a different sort of way.  With Ponsonby’s disposal, the double-0 section had gone into an uproar, that much Moneypenny knew firsthand.  Since she was asked to step away from the Service, however, Moneypenny hadn’t heard any further information.  In preparation for her trip, not a few hours after her last disastrous meeting with Argall, though, Moneypenny had surreptitiously contacted Kimberly for more details. He had responded with a cryptic message that Moneypenny decoded with care.

What Argall hadn’t told Moneypenny was this: while Appleton took Moneypenny’s old spot, Langley had tried to wrangle the double-0 section, only to find it untamable.  In the interim, she had disbanded it, only to achieve the worst-case scenario: more than ten British citizens, trained as living weapons, suddenly dropped off of the map.  Had it been one or two, MI6 protocol would have been to suggest that they were dead to cover for their early retirement, but for all of them to go at once, and after such an uproar…!  To say that the service was terrified would be to make the understatement of a lifetime.  0014 had been the first not to check in, but one by one they disappeared after completing their objectives.  Though the manhunt for the five traitors was the Service’s biggest operation, the search for the missing double-0s came in for a close second.

The obvious solution was that Ponsonby had holed up with one or all of them.  It seemed clear enough that personal loyalty to Ponsonby had gone above Queen and Crown for the most of the double-0s, and so the simplest solution for their absence was that they had defected with her.  That had always been the section’s weakness, drawing killers rather than true patriots, and hearing that their license to kill had been collectively revoked had probably changed the minds of the more nationalistic amongst them.  If Ponsonby was to be found, it would not be easy, and it would come with terrific loss of life.

The issue in Moneypenny’s mind was the timing.  It had taken a week for Langley to disband the section, and in that period, neither hide nor hair of Ponsonby had shown up on anyone’s radar.  She had dropped off of the very crust of the Earth.

Lee was the conundrum, though, the piece that had never quite fit.  Where everyone else’s motives, excepting perhaps Ponsonby’s, were clear, Lee was the odd one out.  She was too loyal to Ponsonby and the old M for anyone’s comfort, though it was anyone’s guess as to why.  In some regards, she painted the most sympathetic of pictures—blind husband, young child, nearly killed by two angry double-0s during a routine interrogation.  And yet, the guards around her attackers’ cells had been weak.  She had put up no fight, though everyone who was anyone knew that she could have handled herself.  She had disappeared from Medical and hopped on a plane with her family.  If nothing else, she should have been easy to track, but hers was the coldest of trails, and none had been able to locate her.

Except.

Moneypenny had an idea.

Accepting that Ponsonby was the lynchpin of whatever operation had been pulled off, and accepting that Lee, for whatever reason, was her willing second, they had to have their plans in place beforehand.  They had disappeared too easily for anything else.  Dvorak and Misra had each claimed to know nothing during official proceedings, and anything Argall had gotten out of them she hadn’t felt inclined to share with Moneypenny.

According to Moneypenny’s theory, the double-0s hadn’t been notified of Ponsonby’s plans ahead of time.  If they had known, they ought to have vanished when she did.  As it was, the delay before the first agent went off the radar—0014, Moneypenny reminded herself—was simply too long.  He checked in and promptly disappeared.  That was a full week that Ponsonby would have had to have remained hidden, but where would she have gone without help?  They’d all but set the dogs on the city.  Even for such a formidable woman, there was no place she could have stashed herself.

No, if Moneypenny were right, Ponsonby and Lee had gone into the operation together and had left together as well.  Perhaps Lee had allowed herself and her family to be recorded as flying to the States to mask the fact that Ponsonby was there with them.  Moneypenny sincerely doubted that Lee had made such an oversight as to not use false papers, and if she’d had fresh ones made for Ponsonby, no one at MI6 would be the wiser.

So, Lee and Ponsonby flew to United States together with Lee’s husband and child, then vanished.  If Moneypenny was right, that was four people who could be tracked within the states.

Finishing her champagne, Moneypenny smiled to herself.  She was going to talk with Ponsonby and Lee and discover what on earth had prompted them to commit treason at the worst possible moment.  She fastened her seatbelt and appeared to lose herself in the book that she’d brought, a Lord Peter Wimsey mystery, for the duration of the descent.

* * *

Once on the ground, Moneypenny breezed through Customs and Immigration.  The balding man stayed close all throughout.  Moneypenny considered asking him for directions just to make him sweat even more than he already was.

Outside, the sun was high, pale and watery against a bleak skyline.  Moneypenny had an inexplicable distaste for the United States.  Back when Moneypenny had first joined the administrative team, Annabelle and Stirling, the joint heads of Domestic Support, used to rib her for her ability to find beauty anywhere, so long as it wasn’t on North American soil.

As she waited for a cab, Moneypenny felt her mobile buzzing in her bag.  She frowned to herself as she checked the ID, only to find it an unknown number.  She’d put the thing in airplane mode for the duration of the flight, and she hadn’t remembered switching it off.

“Hello?” she asked cautiously.

“Hello!” came the unnaturally cheerful voice on the other end.  Moneypenny frowned.   _Argall_.  “Have you landed yet?  I’ve been so worried!”

Her tone was _too_ unnatural.  “Yes,” Moneypenny said.  The balding man was calling someone.  “Listen, can I call you back?”

“Oh, I’m doing well, thanks,” Argall said.  “Have you caught a cab?  You may miss traffic if you leave now.”

Moneypenny’s eyes narrowed as she flagged a little harder.  Her work was rewarded, and she soon slid in the backseat.

“You’ll want 745 East 42 Street,” Argall said.  “Call me when you get there, all right?”

Argall was gone with a _click_.

“745 East 42 Street,” Moneypenny told the driver.

“You wanna go to Brooklyn?” he asked.

Moneypenny shrugged.  “Go,” she said.  As they pulled away from the curb, she saw the bald man watching the cab pull away.  He was taking note of the license plate, she realized.

Moneypenny pulled up the unknown number Argall had used and quickly texted, “ _How far is that?_ ”

A response appeared immediately: “ _You’ll make it.  Call me when you get there._ ”

The driver wove in and out of traffic.  Between the growing sounds from the city, the music, and his own incessant stream of criticism against other drivers, Moneypenny couldn’t make out a single thing.  She was left with her own thoughts, which now revolved around Argall: what was the other woman thinking?  Was she leading Moneypenny into a trap?  The Service (Moneypenny was having a hard time thinking of it in any other terms since MI5 had swept in) hadn’t sent Moneypenny, and they wouldn’t be happy that she was pursuing leads on her own, but they also hadn’t told her to stay in one place.

Conversely, was Argall _helping_ her?

The cab skidded to a stop in front of a gas station surrounded by construction and a few spare trees.  One of the streets looked residential, and she was caddy-corner from a primary school, but there were few people around.  Moneypenny paid the driver without paying too close attention and dialed Argall before she was even out of the car.

Argall didn’t answer.

Moneypenny might have thrown down her mobile in rage as fury boiled in her bones—Argall had _set her up_ —until she looked at the screen.

“ _Can’t talk.  Silver Mitsubishi.  Keys in the ignition._ ”

Moneypenny spotted the car and jogged to it.  The driver’s window—left side, Moneypenny had to remind herself—was down, and the keys were just sitting there.  She reached inside to unlock the door and stepped in.  Training ensured that she didn’t look around or otherwise make eye contact.

_“If you do something illegal on a mission,”_ Moneypenny’s trainer had said, _“you know what you do?”_

Hands had gone up as if they were in grade school.

_“You take Fat Clemenza’s advice,”_ the trainer said, answering the question for them.   _“You shoot someone, you drop your trigger-hand to your side, drop the gun close to your foot.  Everyone thinks you still have it and they’re scared of you, so walk out of there, don’t run, just walk; don’t make eye contact, but don’t avoid it, either.  They’re scared.  Stay calm.  You run, they run.  You walk, they panic in place.  It’s the same for the lesser evils.  You steal something?  A car, maybe, or a wallet.  You walk like you own the place.  Don’t flaunt it, but don’t hide it.  Only the guilty try to hide.  The rest of us regular folks don’t even think about it.”_

Moneypenny’s mobile buzzed again: “ _check your bag now please_ ”.  She rifled through her purse until she found what she thought Argall was referencing: an earwig.

Gingerly, she affixed it, then asked, “Right?”

“Right,” Argall said.  “You rolling?”

“On it,” Moneypenny replied.  She backed out of the spot and pulled up to a light.

“I need you to follow my directions,” Argall said.  “Q has bought us some time, but I may need to step away at times.”

“Q?”

“New Q,” Argall corrected.  “I’ll explain once I get you set up. Hook a right and keep going west.  You’re going to get onto 278 and then 95, both going north.  Make it quick, too.”

Moneypenny agreed.  Traffic was rough, and she weaved in and out as best as she could.  Pedestrians around the area were aggressive and walked clean into the road, and she was soon furious.

“New Q?” Moneypenny asked as soon as she was on 278.

“Walid Ahmed got a promotion,” Argall said.  “He’s the one who’s enabling our little session right now.  He’s ‘handling’ your tracker.  Can’t be helped if he’s better with instruments than coding, though and there just _happens_ to a be a glitch that has your man following the wrong cab.  When he notices, there’ll be hell, but we’ll get there.”

“What’s happening?” Moneypenny demanded.  She passed  a cop who glared at her.  Belatedly, Moneypenny remembered that driving while talking on a mobile was illegal in the States and switched to the hands-free mode.  “Bloody Americans.”

“What’s happening where?”

“What’s happening _here_.  Now.  Where are you leading me?”

Argall said, “She decided she wanted to talk to you after all.  I’m just following orders.”

Moneypenny frowned.  She had a feeling that Argall’s mysterious commander was Ponsonby.

“You knew I’d come,” Moneypenny said.

“Of course,” Argall responded.  “It’s what you do once you find her that matters, though.  Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Moneypenny slipped in front of a man who seemed to worship the speed limit and hit the gas.  “I don’t have a side,” Moneypenny said.  “I want to keep my friends and my country safe.”

“What if you can’t do both?” Argall asked.  “What if you had to make a choice?”

Moneypenny had no answer.

* * *

Argall instructed Moneypenny to take 95 to 91 on up to Massachusetts.  Gradually, the road came to be lined with tall, straight trees.  The further north Moneypenny drove , the cloudier it became, and there was a fine mist hanging well above the road.  Exhaustion and jetlag began to hit her, and the sun was going down, but Moneypenny drove on.

Vermont was Argall’s destination.  Moneypenny drove until the cement gave way to pitted dirt track on back roads in a tiny town called Glover.  Argall had to disappear for most of Moneypenny’s rather lengthy drive, but when Moneypenny was close the woman explained that Glover encompassed very few people, and many of the houses were second homes, used for renting or vacationing.  This time of year, there were few up there other than the locals.

Moneypenny stopped at a grim two-storey piece at the end of a narrow dirt track.  Argall had said that they were by Shadow Lake.  In the dark, all Moneypenny could see of it was the periodic glint of light off of the surface.  She came to a stop, her legs sore and her stomach empty, in front of the dark house.

“Now what?” Moneypenny asked, trying not to let exasperation and fatigue slip into her voice, but Argall’s voice was gone.  It took Moneypenny a moment to realize that the other woman had disconnected the line.

Chilly and hungry, Moneypenny tossed the earwig back into her bag and got out of the car with a quiet curse.  No sooner had she done so than the front door of the house opened and a man stepped out.

Judging through the inadequate light produced by the car’s headlights, he was no one Moneypenny had ever seen.  He might have been handsome had he had hair.  He wore dark sunglasses in spite of the oppressive darkness, and a white wife beater.  He was in good shape—his muscles had strong definition, and he appeared overall powerful with regards to his body.

He was also sporting a white cane.

_Blind_.  No wonder he hadn’t switched on the porch light.

“Hello!” Moneypenny called.  “I was told to come here.”

“Who are you?” the man asked.  He had a deep, rasping voice.  In another life he would have made a marvelous jazz singer.

“My name is Eve,” she called.  “I’m looking for someone, a Loelia.”

The man made a face, then headed back inside.  He left the door open, and Moneypenny scrambled after him.

In this fashion, she found herself facing down the barrel of a shotgun held by a very disgruntled Yin Lee.


	30. Jurisdiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mallory takes executive action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're back! Barring divine meddling, I shouldn't have to put this on a further hiatus. I'll be posting every week on Fridays, and possibly twice a week once I've got the last chapter edited and pretty. On that note, mistflyer1102 is a saint and the only reason this project is still alive. There aren't enough thanks in the world :D

_Six weeks past Q’s abduction._

 

Mallory’s makeshift office had long since filled with smoke by the time Tanner arrived.  Tanner was twelve minutes late, and though Mallory had the grace not to show it, he had begun worrying in a manner that, had he been thinking clearly, he would have recognized as entirely out of character.  Mallory was never one to be concerned.

“Sorry,” Tanner said without much feeling when he finally walked through the door.  “Sadler kept me.”

Sadler.  Mallory scowled at the name and took a very long drag of his cigar.  Sadler was the reason they had to meet in this broom closet rather than his proper office.  Sadler was the thorn in their side.  He’d been brought in from MI5 shortly after the fiasco with Bond, Trevelyan and Q.  His job was to “monitor, observe, and assist” MI6 on behalf of MI5, but Mallory was very tempted to bodily defenestrate the man next time he saw him for trying to merge the two Services.

“What would she have done?” Mallory asked aloud.  It was a question that he had been pondering for much longer than the past twelve minutes.

“You mean your predecessor,” Tanner said, coming to sit in front of the desk.  Mallory could see his subordinate peering at him through the dim air and wondered what it was that Tanner saw.

“In many ways, this is her fault,” Mallory said, his tones clipped.  He tapped his cigar against his ashtray once.  He liked these cigars for how they felt in the hand.  “And yet, she managed to avoid just this outcome for decades.  She kept complete silence, so rare in our industry.  Remarkable.”  Mallory smoked for half a minute.  “She was never one to leave something unfinished.  She had a plan in case this went tits-up.  What would it have been?”

Mallory watched Tanner look away and grimaced.  He knew, like his subordinate, that he’d begun at the exact place his predecessor would have avoided like the plague.  He’d managed to alienate not one, not two, but the entire double-0 section, and, to add insult to injury, he’d lost the Quartermaster in the process.

“I believe that mistakes,” Mallory said crisply in the resultant silence, “were made.  I was too worried about a security breach on the part of our Quartermaster to see that my actions jeopardized the entirety of the Service.  That alone warrants my removal from this office.”  Mallory noted with some disdain that Tanner did not disagree with him.  “Even so,” Mallory continued, “I cannot step down.”

“Sadler would see us taken over by MI5,” Tanner said plainly. “All current operations would be damned to hell.”

Mallory nodded once.  “It would be the end of MI6, and of British espionage for the foreseeable future,” he said.  “Fit for the position at this time or not, I have no choice but to weather the storm.”  He crossed his legs and turned to Tanner.  “So,” he asked, “what would she do from here?”

He watched Tanner squirm under his gaze.  “She had utter faith in Bond to do the right thing,” Tanner said finally, not quite answering the question.  “During the, ah, incident in Venice, she trusted him to come back into the fold.  I think she relied on him, not only for foreign operations, but to keep potential troublemakers in line.”  Mallory stared at Tanner until his subordinate squirmed.  “Q, potentially,” Tanner said finally.  “She was worried that such a young man with such a difficult background could be corrupted by the position.  I believe that’s part of why she put them in dialogue, Bond and Q.  If Bond thought that Q was a danger to us, he would put him down, feelings or no.”  Tanner fidgeted as he added, “Trevelyan, too.”

Mallory steepled his fingers.  “She picked an old man for a vanguard,” he said.  “Too old.”

Tanner bowed his head.  “Perhaps.  But it was a system that worked for her.”

“He wouldn’t answer to me.”

“Not now.”

“Not ever.”

Tanner’s mouth quirked in a tiny smile.  “Perhaps not,” Tanner amended.

Mallory sat back in his chair.  “I believe that it’s obvious, but what is spoken in this room does not leave it,” he said.  Tanner nodded.  “I’ve set up a team.  They are headed for Algiers now, as we speak.”

“Algiers?” Tanner asked.

“According to our latest information, that’s where our Quartermaster and his rogue double-0s have been for these past six weeks.”

Tanner asked, “Did Ponsonby talk?”

Mallory shook his head.  “She refuses to speak to us,” he said mildly.  “We’ve tried everything.  If she so much as breathes, it’s to ask for consultant R.”

“I don’t understand,” Tanner said.  He folded his arms across his chest and frowned.  “Why ask for the consultant?”

Mallory rolled his cigar between his fingers.  He considered offering Tanner one.  “That is the question,” he said.  “One of the first things we did, of course, was put a watch on her.”

“Have they noticed anything unusual?” Tanner asked.

“We stopped after the first two weeks, after Moneypenny brought Ponsonby in,” Mallory said, “or thereabouts.  Possibly a day earlier.”  He rubbed his forehead.  He had a monstrous headache, and closing the curtains and smoking himself silly weren’t helping like they should.  “She’s had no contact with anyone we can see.  Taught her classes, spent over-long nights staring at the sky using expensive telescopes.  She’s a physicist, not an agent.  There’s no sense wasting manpower on her.”

“And now?” Tanner asked.  “Are we contacting her?  If she’s who Ponsonby wants to talk to…”

Mallory smiled cruelly.  “Though it hardly makes sense not to, no, we are not,” he said.  “Sadler has decided that she amounts to a potential threat to our security and has revoked her consultant status permanently.  We have yet to install a replacement.”

Tanner nodded slowly.  “So she’s a civilian.”

“Quite,” Mallory said sourly.

“A civilian who witnessed firsthand the chaos of Q Division after its Quartermaster was kidnapped,” Tanner said, speaking slowly.  “A civilian who’s met Moneypenny and you, not to mention most of the administrators.”

“Quite,” Mallory repeated.

Tanner chuckled softly.  “Sadler’s taking the fucking piss.”

“He wants us to burn, but he hasn’t thought it through.” Mallory couldn’t hold back a more genuine smile.  “If she went public, both Services would go down, not just us,” he said.  “At the moment, I’m not sure if I don’t want her media-friendly face plastered across the nation dragging us all down together.  It would bury the rest of the bodies soundly.”

Tanner shook his head.  “We’ve too many enemies,” he said, as if Mallory needed reminding, “and too many operations to wrap up, besides.  If we go down…”

“All it takes is the pull of a trigger and Anastas’ deal is over,” Mallory finished.  “Yes, I know.  Do I know.”  He finally offered Tanner a cigar.  The other man accepted and lit it enthusiastically.

“Ponsonby won’t talk unless it’s to R,” Mallory said.  “Dr. Anna Schirmer, that’s her name.  But, to go back to the issue at hand, Ponsonby isn’t the source for the Algiers information.”  He breathed deeply.  “We intercepted a letter from Algiers.  It was destined for Cambridge, where Dr. Schirmer teaches.  One of the students there has a sister in Algiers who claims to be living with three men.”

“Let me guess,” Tanner said, lowering his cigar.

“The letter arrived two days ago,” Mallory said.  “Sadler wanted to act on it immediately.  I was more wary.  Trevelyan was in Algiers just before all this went to hell.  It doesn’t make sense that he’d go back.”

“Did he really burn the villa down?” Tanner asked.  Mallory raised a single eyebrow in answer.

“Even so,” Mallory continued, “he appears to have gone back, bringing Bond and Q with him.  They’re likely preoccupied getting Q back to health; he was in bad shape when we got him back.  That’s the only way I can think that they’d miss that letter going out.  Neither of the agents are generally so careless.”

“Your team is going to bring them all in, then,” Tanner said.

“Hopefully not,” Mallory replied.  “I chose the operatives personally.  Bond and Q are to be allowed to escape.  I’m willing to trust my predecessor’s judgement on Bond and his love interests.”

“And Trevelyan?”

“He’s coming back with us,” Mallory said firmly.  “She didn’t trust him with a license to kill and neither do I.  He’s erratic and unstable to the point of… To the point of assured destruction.”  Mallory pursed his lips.  “He’s the most likely of the lot to become a true defector and join his illustrious father.  We need to speak with him to determine how far gone he is.  If he talks a good game, he can stay or go as he pleases.”

Tanner visibly hesitated before saying, “Ponsonby convinced your predecessor to trust him.”

“That’s the other thing,” Mallory said.  “Ponsonby.  Lee.  She trusted the both of them.  They knew.”

Tanner shrugged lightly.  “They’re protecting their own.  That division always has.”

Mallory frowned.  “Bond and Trevelyan make sense.  Ponsonby’s an odd soul; it takes one to do her job.  But Lee.”

“Lee?” Tanner asked.

“What do you know about her?” Mallory asked seriously.  “It strikes me that I know rather little about her.”  He watched Tanner over his desk in the hazy room as if to look away meant sudden death.

Tanner fidgeted and pulled at his sleeves.  He was sweating, Mallory noted.  His shirtsleeves were stuck to his wrists just as his collar was pasted to his neck from the sheer accumulation of moisture.  Tanner held his joints rigidly and his pupils had visibly dilated when asked the question.

“Nothing, sir,” Tanner said.  Mallory watched him for another long moment.  Tanner had to realize that Mallory knew he was lying.

“You understand she has no record before the start of her service here,” Mallory continued.  Tanner smoked to avoid speaking.  “No papers.  No tickets.  Not even a passport photograph.  And yet she’s willing to go off the map with Ponsonby, to find herself thrashed by two double-0 agents, with unflinching loyalty.”

“I understand,” Tanner said.

“I don’t trust her,” Mallory said, “and I don’t trust those who would knowingly withhold information about potential hostile forces both within and without this Service.”

Tanner was staring into his lap.  Mallory wondered just what his infamous predecessor had threatened, or bribed, the man with to keep her secret, and why.

“Your silence is admirable,” Mallory said.  “But not commendable.  It hurts whatever chances we have of reestablishing order.”

“Do you believe we can do such a thing?” Tanner asked.  “We’re walking a fine line now just staying afloat.”

“Sadler can’t afford to go public with this,” Mallory said.  “MI5 has too much to lose.  If they wanted to claim the high ground, they would have needed to catch Anastas’ sons earlier.  Potential terrorists on domestic soil?  For decades?  MI5 will catch more heat than we will if everything comes out as is.

“Short term, if we can shake Sadler and the rest for a bit, we could renew an agreement with Anastas and, if necessary, shore up his defenses.”

“You would negotiate with a terrorist and an arms dealer,” Tanner said.

“My predecessor did,” Mallory sniffed.  “Desperate times and all that.”

Tanner was watching him with what Mallory could only later recognize as a muted respect.

“Making such a deal would ensure that the Trevelyan problem was taken care of,” Tanner said.  “Same with Q and Bond.  They’d all come back.  Long term risk is tremendous, though.  Our boys know better now, but the ones over at Five still think that Q set up Bahrain and Siberia.”

“We know he didn’t,” Mallory interrupted.  “We made that perfectly clear in the investigation.  His records show nothing but a certain proclivity toward his own lover, which is nothing if not to be expected.”

Tanner acquiesced with a brief bow of his head.  “But the reputation and the rumours remain,” he said.  “Not only that, but the suspect has turned up dead and so cannot speak to his own guilt or innocence.  They’ve all been discussed as traitors, not just Q.  We would have to quell all that talk.”

“Which can be done,” Mallory said.

“In a longer term,” Tanner continued, “we have to worry about handoff.”  Mallory watched the Chief of Staff roll his own cigar between his fingers and realized that Tanner was an excellent mimic.  “The Service can’t afford another transition as we’ve just seen.”

“Trevelyan and Bond will be out of the game by the time I leave,” Mallory said, “assuming all goes well.”

“But Q may very well remain,” Tanner said.  “If you cannot pass on the details of your deal—which would, in the style of your predecessor, be necessarily withheld—then we risk repeating history.”

Mallory stewed in his own cigar smoke.  “You are correct,” he said, “and damn you for it.”

Tanner smiled sheepishly.  “You asked me here to help you plan, sir,” he said.

“No, carry on,” Mallory ordered.  “At any rate, in the event of a takeover, we would have civil war.”

“Pardon me?” Tanner asked.

“Ah,” Mallory said, “if we were to strike another deal with Anastas, renew the terms, and MI5 took us over, the agreement would be void.  Sadler and the Home Secretary don’t negotiate the way we do because they don’t see the world as we do.  We would risk starting a war between the Services with Anastas on our team.  England, of course, would be naturally aligned with MI5 in retaliation.”

“Chaos,” Tanner murmured.  “We have to avoid that.”

“With a new deal off the table,” Mallory said, “it seems to me that the only feasible plan is to try to woo the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister into giving MI6 back to us."

“Which we can only have if we give them a scapegoat,” Tanner said uneasily.  Mallory watched him work it out.  “Trevelyan.”

“Only if he fails to cooperate,” Mallory said softly.  He breathed smoke through his nose and watched the tendrils seep into the dark of the space.  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.  Bond would be furious, to say nothing of Q.  We’d have more enemies than we’ve bargained for.”

Tanner’s face was uneasy.  “You’re hoping that Ponsonby gives herself up to save her agent.”

Mallory set his mouth in a line.  “One can hope,” he said.  “We’ve still lost the double-0 section, but if we move otherwise, we’ve got Anastas breathing down our necks.  We’d have business as usual, but I’d rather have fewer enemies than more.”

“So,” Tanner said, folding his hands, “you bring in Trevelyan and make Ponsonby an ultimatum.  Either Trevelyan takes the heat for her, or she comes forth to take responsibility for covering up this mess?”

“Correct,” Mallory said.  “Not the most elegant of solutions, granted.  I suppose we could negotiate, pick a scapegoat, but we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Tanner unfolded his hands to rub an eye.  “It stands a chance for success, though,” he said.  “What do Langley and Kimberly think?”

Mallory turned away.  “I wouldn’t know about Langley,” he said.  “I played my cards wrong with her.  You know, I rather think she and Sadler are fit to be married.”  He heard Tanner stifle a laugh.  “I pushed Kimberly away because he withheld information,” Mallory continued, “and I made the mistake of relating that fact to Sadler.  Kimberly can no longer be consulted.  As far as I know he’s been asked to take a vacation and can be reached at a disconnected number in Portugal.”

Tanner nodded.  “So it’s you and me, then,” he said, “and anyone else we can wrangle.”

“Yes,” Mallory said.  After a moment, he shifted slightly and added, “I am sorry for the strain this puts on your family.”  He heard Tanner wriggling in his seat.

“It’s fine,” Tanner said, the lie slipping through his teeth.  “They’re rather used to it by now, I’m afraid.”

The lock on the only door to the space clicked, and the door opened.  A whirl of smoke escaped the makeshift offices as Moneypenny slipped inside.

“Sorry,” she said.  “Langley kept me.”

“Langley?” Tanner asked as Moneypenny found a seat.  Mallory saw Tanner glance to him.  He’d neglected to inform him that Moneypenny was coming.  He’d also given them separate times to meet.  Mallory had to trust Moneypenny; Tanner, he hadn’t been so sure.

“Ambushed me outside of Q Division.”  She smiled falsely.  “I’m beginning to think she doesn’t trust me.”

Mallory squinted at her.  “You did manage to dig up Ponsonby,” he said.  “You won’t tell anybody how you found her.”

“I found her in Sussex County, Delaware, stateside,” Moneypenny said, clearly put out.  “Tip from Leiter, who sends his regards.  Do I get a cigar, or is that just for the old boys?”

Mallory watched Moneypenny and Tanner together and sighed.  “So many secrets,” he said, handing another cigar over.  He was beginning to regret giving Tanner one.  “I do hope they don’t come back to bite us in the future.”  After a moment, he asked, “How is Q Division?”

“Subdued,” Moneypenny said.  “Our new Q is well known to them, and the other quartermasters respect him, but there have been the same grumblings that we’ve heard for weeks now.”

“Wondering why Argall didn’t get the promotion?” Tanner ventured.

“Yes,” Moneypenny said.  “Argall and our new Q are working together to keep Q Division in line on that front, but there have been fractures.”

“Fractures?” Mallory asked.

“For lack of a better word, yes,” Moneypenny said.  She smoked—Mallory didn’t want to say like a man, but like she knew her way around a cigar.  He hadn’t expected that.  “I went down to survey the area after talking to Appleton.  Whatever magic the old Q used to put Q Division together, our new Q doesn’t have it.”

Mallory let that new information settle.

“Reestablish order,” he murmured to himself.

“I went to visit Ponsonby,” Moneypenny said in the ensuing silence.

After a long pause, Mallory asked, “And?”

“Not a word,” Moneypenny said.  “Asked for R.  Again.”

Tanner put up his hands and Mallory sat back.  “Lord,” he said.  “Lord.  We’ve no choice, then.”

Tanner gave the brief version of Mallory’s plan to storm Algiers.  Moneypenny frowned all throughout.

“With all due respect, going up against two rogue double-0 agents and the Quartermaster is a suicide mission.  They won’t just open the door and ask if anyone wants a cuppa.”

“They are aware of the difficulties,” Mallory said gently.

“Given the circumstances, I understand that this is the only way out,” Moneypenny pressed, “but if we get someone—”

“Who?” Mallory asked.  Moneypenny remained resolutely silent.  “You keep your secrets, then,” he said, suddenly angry.  He stood, as did his two subordinates.  “But this is our way out, and I’m taking it.”  He plucked his mobile from his desk and punched a few short commands to the team leader.  “They’ll make contact in an hour,” he said.  “It’s a quiet operation.  No support.  They go in alone and finish it.”

He waited a few moments.  Moneypenny agreed first, then Tanner.  With that consensus, Mallory sent the final order.


	31. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trevelyan, Bond, and Q find themselves on the run.

Trevelyan was proud of his ability to separate his personal feelings from his job.That wasn’t to say that he didn’t enjoy what he did; he wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t like it.The rush of endorphins he felt while working an operation, the flood of acetylcholine, dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine and epinephrine; none of those could lie.To say that he savored the feel of the bones he crushed and the blood vessels he popped in the people who got in his way would be morbid but true.Trevelyan was, at heart, a violent man, an embodiment of chaos in a world that, where he’d been raised, strove for order.He loved to break that symmetry, disrupt the established system, dismantle a carefully constructed artifact from the top down, strewing the parts haphazardly as he went.It made him feel alive, and he relished every moment of it.

On this day in Algiers, however, Trevelyan found the exception to his rule.

He had his back to the front wall of what had been Ines’ home.Now, it more closely resembled a demolition site than a house.It wouldn’t have been a problem, but Ines was still upstairs waiting for the all-clear from Trevelyan to get out.

“Shit,” he muttered.His left leg was bleeding, and his right eye was acting up again.When Slater had mucked up his face the first time around, his eye had never fully recovered.He could see just fine, but when that half of his face was even mildly injured, it hurt like hell.“James, where the hell are you?Need backup.”

“James is on his way,” Q answered instead.His voice was tinny in Trevelyan’s ear.Bond had picked up earpieces for all of them not three days ago “just in case”, and though Trevelyan had never liked them, the timing couldn’t have been better.It helped to know that it was his brother and not some faceless goon giving the orders, too.Someone else was shooting at Trevelyan, and he shot back as Q said, “He’s almost there.”

Trevelyan risked a glance into the street.He saw the flick of Bond’s trousers as he ran around a wall on the opposite side and began firing into their attackers.

“Found him,” Trevelyan said, rather superfluously.He and Bond had put up cameras all around the city weeks ago.Q could see everything without Trevelyan’s narration, at least where the cameras hadn’t been destroyed.

“Alec, there are two coming up on your left.”

Trevelyan nodded and snipped the first, then the second attacker from a low window that the incessant barrage of bullets from outside had punched through the wall.“The rest?” he asked.

“Surrounding the building,” Q said.“Lots on the street behind, and you can see the front.They are trying to storm it before they resort to explosives.”

“Wonderful.”Trevelyan pulled out a second handgun and, checking the rounds on both of his weapons, stepped into the doorway.Trevelyan’s madness had some method; he liked to shoot one, then the other, alternating until he ran out of bullets.It was dangerous, if only because the cartridges discharged in the same direction on both weapons, but Trevelyan felt that it was easy with some practice.On one of his first trips to the MI6 psychiatrists, he’d likened it to squeezing stress balls.He grinned to remember the terrified look on the junior psychiatrist’s face as she nearly choked at the image.

The shootout in Algiers had started nearly three hours ago.Someone—Trevelyan guessed MI6—had tripped one of Bond and Trevelyan’s many traps.Trevelyan was grateful for both their ineptitude—who in their right mind thought that charging two well-rested double-0 agents was a good idea?—and their sluggishness.In the six weeks that they’d been waiting for a strike, Q’s ribs had healed almost entirely and he could move with ease.Between Q’s brains and the combined savagery of Bond and himself, Trevelyan thought that MI6 didn’t have a prayer.

“At your four, James,” Q was saying.“No civilians in the building across from you.”There was an explosion as Bond detonated some variety of charge.Trevelyan laughed.

“Got one,” he said, taking a headshot at an approaching man.He immediately ducked to avoid retaliatory fire.

“Q, do you recognize any of them?” Trevelyan heard Bond asked.Trevelyan reached around the wall and shot blindly.Someone gave a startled gasp, and under the sound of artillery fire Trevelyan heard a body go down.

“Negative,” Q said.“Not MI6 regulars.Mercenaries, more like.”

“They’re shooting to kill,” Trevelyan said blandly.“No standard field agent has those kind of stones.”

“They’re not double-0 section,” Q said.“But you knew that.”

“Mercenaries it is, then.”Trevelyan smiled.“How many out front?”

“Seven.I don’t have visual on civilians in the adjacent building, but by now they should be gone.”

Trevelyan grunted as he reached to his side.With a quick tug and a toss, a grenade was flying.He heard the men outside shriek as they tried to scatter, and the resulting boom was most satisfying.

“How about now?” Trevelyan asked.

“Give us a second.You took out one of my cameras.”

“Sorry, Q.”Trevelyan smiled, utterly remorseless.

Q said, “Just one, James’ side, but there are more up the street in both directions.”There was a pause.“They’re trying to skirt you.Must have found my signal.Five are headed toward my section of the city with a convoy on a parallel street.”

Trevelyan didn’t need to be told twice.As Bond took out the last man standing, Trevelyan said, “Ines, you’re with me.I need you to hurry now.”

Ines moved quickly and appeared at the base of the stairs in moments.She waited for Trevelyan’s nod to step out the door and run to his side, hopping over corpses as she went.

“Follow me,” Trevelyan said.Holding his guns close, he ran up the street, keeping Ines abreast of him, then ducked into the foyer of what used to be a pawnshop.Popping out the back door, he ran feverishly.Trevelyan had to smile; even in her scarves, Ines was faster than he was.

“Q, I need you to fall back to second rendezvous,” Bond said over the line.

“I do that and you have no backup until I get there,” Q said.

“They make it to you and we have no backup at all,” Bond snapped.“Get out of there now and meet us at the second site.”

There was a shuffling noise, then Q said, “Get there quickly, both of you.They’re moving fast.Alec, Ines, there are four coming up behind you.”

Ines ducked into an alley without needing to be told as Trevelyan whipped around, and not a moment too soon.He skidded into the dirt as he fired.

“I do hope these aren’t MI6,” he said, slightly breathless from the exertion and the heat, “because they’re terrible shots.”

Bond grunted over the comm line.“Found the convoy,” he said.Trevelyan heard the moment Bond’s feet stopped making dull thuds against the ground, and a crash as he presumably latched onto one of the trucks.

Beckoning to Ines, Trevelyan hurried forward.He went to round a corner and immediately backtracked.The five men who had been approaching Q’s location on foot had doubled back.

“Found our five,” he said.Reloading, Trevelyan wheeled back into the street and took shot after shot.He grabbed one of their rifles and began to move again.The swish behind him told him that Ines wasn’t far behind.

They were reaching part of the city that hadn’t been immediately affected by the violent onslaught.At the first sign of gunfire, the people scattered and screamed.A few men and women reached for weapons, but Ines was shouting something Trevelyan couldn’t quite translate, and the people parted for them.

“Almost at first rendezvous,’ Trevelyan said. Bond didn’t respond, though Trevelyan could hear the smack of skin against skin and the roar of guns.With his other ear, Trevelyan could hear the exact same noises a half-second earlier just one or two streets over.

Trevelyan skidded to a halt in front of the cheerful looking home that had been designated as the first rendezvous.Ines took shelter in the doorway.Trevelyan looked down a side street to see Bond on the hood of a truck fighting with two men at the same time.The driver seemed to be doing his best to knock them all off by swerving violently around the street.

“James, James,” Trevelyan muttered, leveling one of his stolen rifles.“Always doing things the hard way.”

The first of the men was easy to hit.He fell off of the hood with a scream and was crushed under the tyres.The second was much harder.Bond and he were struggling to get a grip on one another, and each jolt of the truck sent them skittering to one side or another.

“Get out of the way, James,” Trevelyan muttered.

“You don’t have a clear shot,” Ines said.She placed one hand on the barrel of Trevelyan’s gun.With a start, he realized that at some point she’d picked up one of her own.“James, get off.You’ll have cover if you jump when I say.Alec, don’t you have any grenades left?”

Her voice was clear and steady and Trevelyan thought he might be in love.Neither double-0 hesitated to answer to her count.

* * *

Trevelyan, Bond, and Ines made their way to the second rendezvous together.  Trevelyan led, keeping Ines close behind, and Bond covered the rear.  Q came back online not a minute after they met up, and he gave them directions to avoid the worst of the men crawling the area.  It wasn’t too hard; any MI6 mercenaries that were left had fallen back for the moment.  The trio was able to make it most of the way to Q’s current location before a fresh smattering of gunfire had them seeking shelter behind a stack of wooden crates.

“Damn,” Trevelyan cursed.“Those bastards just don’t give up, do they?”

“It’s not the same people,” Q said.“Two factions, one of them certainly MI6, but they seem to be firing on each other.If Six hired mercenaries, they certainly don’t get along anymore.They haven’t taken notice of you yet, but they’re coming closer.”

“Fall back to third rendezvous,” Bond ordered.

Q’s voice sounded like he’d swallowed a lemon.“Truth be told, the MI6 regulars appeared from behind before I got here.In the grand scheme of things, we’re all surrounded.”

Bond made to stand—they were still being fired upon—but Trevelyan grabbed his arm and yanked him back down.

“Divide and conquer,” Trevelyan said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bond argued.

“I’m not.You’re the safer of the two of us.” He pulled Ines toward Bond.“Push through, get Q, and get out.I’ll stall for time out here.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, you will,” Bond growled.Ines looked between Trevelyan and Bond, fear evident in her eyes.

“Whatever your plan is, make it fast,” Q said.

Trevelyan watched Bond’s face for the half-second it took the man to make a decision.He smiled briefly.

“Meet you in the middle when it’s over,” Trevelyan said.To Ines, he said, “Keep him safe.”He watched Bond and Ines each nod once before they swung out from behind the crates.Trevelyan needed to make enough of a distraction to get Bond and Ines to Q.After that… Trevelyan grinned.After that, all he needed to do was raise a little hell.

* * *

Minute after minute passed in a violent blur.  Trevelyan saw some of the new forces as they came up behind him.  They really did look like real MI6.  Trevelyan fancied that he recognized some of them, but it was hard to tell if they were shooting at their own mercenaries or at Trevelyan himself, so he shot back without discrimination.

After a while, a litany of curses and gunfire was piped in through one ear.Bond wasn’t under any manner of heavy fire, but he wasn’t giving commentary, either, which meant that something had his attention.Q was giving orders.Ines was silent.

Trevelyan was so caught up in the action, the killing and the explosions and the adrenaline, he didn’t notice until it was already too late that in buying time for Bond and Ines to reach Q, he’d been backed closer to the third rendezvous, closer to Bond’s current location.He was being careless, and it cost him.

The bullet that lodged in his right leg sent him sprawling to the ground.It was inelegant and it hurt.There were those in the double-0 section who liked to claim that they did their job well because they felt no pain.Trevelyan thought that was bullshit.In his mind, it wasn’t feeling the pain—it was as sharp and as blood-curdling in the beginning as it was in the end—it was the type of response the pain could illicit.In normal people, pain meant fear and a withdrawal into panic.For Trevelyan, it meant rage.

Apparently, seeing Trevelyan in pain meant something very similar for Ines.

He was just getting up, just getting ready to shoot, and there she was.Her hands were shaking and she appeared to be crying but she had a semi-automatic from God knew where.She stood over him and shot wherever a bullet seemed to be coming from.

It didn’t last long.It couldn’t.Trevelyan was so transfixed by Ines standing over him that he didn’t stand, didn’t do what he should have done, namely get her down and out of the way.He was expendable, she wasn’t.

She fell.

Someone was screaming and it wasn’t her.Q was shouting at him, as was Bond, and Trevelyan’s head felt full of cotton.

Ines did not speak.She’d been hit with several rounds all at once.The two that hit her chest should have been painful but not fatal, but the one that caught her neck… Her spinal cord had been hit, Trevelyan knew in some distant part of his mind.The best kill because it was the cleanest.Instant death.Allegedly painless.

Whatever rage he’d felt upon being hit himself dissipated as quickly as it had come.What replaced it was a rage worthy of Achilles.

“James,” Trevelyan said.He hardly recognized his own voice.There were bullets flying freely, but Trevelyan wasn’t paying much attention.“Take Q and get out.”

Whatever Bond said, or Q said, or anyone else said—none of it registered for Trevelyan.He wanted blood, and he knew just how to get it.


	32. Grasping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot to post this today! Thanks as always to mistflyer1102 for helping me get through this!

The sad thing, in Moneypenny’s view, was just how little it shocked her.When she’d first signed on as a field agent, her supervising officer had bemoaned her squeamishness.Moneypenny didn’t just dislike violence, she loathed it.But after dozens of operations, Istanbul, Skyfall, Bahrain, Siberia, Berlin…?Violence didn’t so much as turn her stomach.She found it sad how desensitized she’d become to it.Ponsonby and the old M had predicted it, she thought sourly.

Moneypenny had left Tanner and Mallory, only to be called back not half an hour later.In Mallory’s real office, a screen had been pulled down, and live footage streamed.It was that footage which failed to shock her.

She was, however, horrified, and rightly so.

Short videos, mostly of Trevelyan causing catastrophic damage with a wide range of weaponry, danced across the screen.Men with guns had him and Bond—of course Bond was there—swarmed.A woman covered mostly with several layers of traditional clothing appeared to be working with them.

“What’s the source?” she asked.

“Originals are from a bunch of locals,” Tanner said.“One of them claims that it’s his house that’s being attacked.He puts the responsibility on us by name.”By “us” Tanner meant MI6.Even amongst the jumbled Arabic—mandatory for field agents and their handlers, but Moneypenny hadn’t needed it in quite some time—she could make out the telltale syllables.

“That’s not us,” Moneypenny said.“You said it wasn’t a kill mission.Right?”

“Wait for it,” Tanner said, miserable.Moneypenny risked a glance to Mallory.Some men got embarrassed when angry, others got violent; Mallory got quiet.He sat at his desk, staring at an engraved pen.His face was white, and his mouth was set into a line.

“There,” Tanner said, drawing Moneypenny’s attention back to the screen.“That’s where ours come in.”

The footage was shaky and zoomed to the point of graininess but good enough that Moneypenny could see faces in passing.She knew some of those men; she’d trained with them.The original “MI6” men attacked them mercilessly, and their actual team had been forced to retaliate.If Bond and Trevelyan distinguished between the two forces, they didn’t show it.

“Who’s the girl?” Moneypenny asked.

“Unknown,” Tanner said sourly.Moneypenny watched Trevelyan and Bond covering her even as she picked up another weapon for herself.

“This is all live?”

“There’s a delay of,” Tanner said, thinking, “about ten minutes?We’re still not sure how they’re streaming it.If Q were here—the old Q, I mean—he’d know.”Tanner pursed his lips.“Where is he, do you think?If he’s not with Bond…”

Moneypenny cursed and risked another glance at Mallory.The man hadn’t moved.If Q wasn’t with Bond, all bets on his allegiance to Queen and Country were off.

“Probably watching this the same way we are,” Moneypenny suggested.“He’s probably coordinating them, trying to get them out.It’s what he does.”Moneypenny really didn’t want to consider the alternative.

“What do we do?” Moneypenny asked.She deliberately posed it to no one in particular.“If we have this here, it’s only a matter of time before the phone starts ringing off the hook.We’re sunk unless we think fast.”

“I disconnected the line,” Mallory said softly.“The calls have already started.”

Moneypenny inhaled deeply to keep herself breathing.“So, what, then?We can’t hide in here all day.”

“No,” Mallory said, standing.“We can’t, and we have a limited window in which we can act freely.I’m going to the Prime Minister.”

“What,” Moneypenny started.

“We need to head this off honestly and quickly.The sooner we get our voices heard, the less MI5 will be able to twist this into something we’re directly responsible for.Someone got there before us, and we need to know why.”He shrugged into his coat.Tanner reached for his.“No.You’re going to find Sadler.Distract him with something—anything will do.If he’s catches wind of this, we’re all buggered.At this point, I don’t care if you have to hit him over the head and shove him into a closet.Shut him up and keep him away from anyone who matters—from anyone at all, actually.”Mallory turned to Moneypenny.“Go to Ponsonby.We need the double-0 section, now more than ever.I don’t care what it takes to get her talking—whoever she wants to talk to, whatever the cost.Give it to her and bring them back.”

* * *

Moneypenny all but ran down to the holding cells.  Mallory had told her that Ponsonby was being kept in the basement below the Q-Division testing facilities.  She hadn’t had time to ask why before Mallory was out the door, his mind no doubt spinning with the nigh-impossible task of convincing the Prime Minister that he hadn’t single-handedly led the entirety of MI6 to the executioner’s stand and sharpened the axe while he was up there.

It was common knowledge amongst those involved in interrogation practices that the more dangerous a prisoner was considered, the deeper they were housed.The real threats were handled off-site, someplace where there was less surveillance and more leeway.Still, there were people—like Ponsonby, Moneypenny thought—who were too dangerous to move, too dangerous to keep.

That’s where the basement levels came into play.

Moneypenny took a deep, bracing breath before she swiped into the lowest accessible floor.She’d been looking forward to many things upon coming back into the fold of MI6; this was not one of them.

The smell of mildew was thick.A pipe dripped at regular intervals.In the absolute middle of the room, one green-hued arm chained to a cot, sat Loelia Ponsonby.

All told, Moneypenny had seen worse.That didn’t diminish the horror of Ponsonby’s appearance.Her eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles.Her skin, now a gray-green, seemed to sag as she breathed.She had several contusions across her arms and face, and Moneypenny noted that she was missing several fingernails.Whoever they’d brought in for the interrogation, they had been thorough, if ineffective.

“I’ll be leaving, then.”

Moneypenny jumped as Argall appeared.She’d been so focused on Ponsonby that she hadn’t noticed the other woman lurking in the shadow of the cell.Ponsonby tracked Argall with her eyes.

“May I?” Argall asked, standing in front of Moneypenny.

Moneypenny asked, “What are you doing down here?”

“Visiting,” Argall said.“Solitary confinement is inhumane.”

“Afanen,” Ponsonby rasped.It sounded like a warning.Either way, Argall jumped as if struck by lightning.

“Excuse me,” Argall said softly, pushing past Moneypenny.Moneypenny didn’t try to catch her.She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach that told her that this wasn’t going to work.

Moneypenny listened as Argall left the cell, the door sweeping shut behind her.Moneypenny stood before Ponsonby, her arms clasped in front of her, considering.She couldn’t look contrite, for all that she felt it.When she’d brought Ponsonby back to MI6, she hadn’t envisaged this particular outcome.

“I would speak with consultant R,” Ponsonby said.

“R is no longer in MI6’s employ,” Moneypenny said.“But you can talk to me.”

“I would speak with consultant R.”

Moneypenny took a deep breath and ultimately wished she hadn’t.There was dirt and decay in the air, not to mention the smell of raw sewage.

“There’s been an incident in Algiers,” Moneypenny said softly.“Bond and Trevelyan have been located.”Ponsonby said nothing.“Forces—not our own—got there first.By the time we arrived on scene, they’d already done their damage.They’re still out there now.”Moneypenny waited.As she anticipated, Ponsonby refused to speak.“We, MI6, we need the double-0 section to combat this, whatever it is,” Moneypenny said.“You’re the only one who knows where they are or how to bring them back into the fold.”

Ponsonby laughed.Moneypenny automatically stood a little straighter, clutched her hands a little tighter.The sound was grating.Moneypenny thought it sounded like madness.

“Then let me speak,” Ponsonby said around her laughter, “with consultant R.”

“Why her?” Moneypenny asked.She shifted her weight from one side to the other.“Out of everyone you could ask for— You have to know that we’re trapped here.Either we give you what you want, or we go down in flames wishing we had.”

Ponsonby smiled.Her teeth were still so perfectly white that Moneypenny had the urge to be ill.It reminded her of the Mexican calaveras.

“Bring her to me,” Ponsonby said, “and I’ll show you.”

Moneypenny’s phone buzzed in the pocket of her skirt, and she sighed.

“I’ll be back with her,” she promised.She could feel Ponsonby’s gaze on her back as she headed to the door.Moneypenny checked before she was even out the door: it was Tanner calling.

“Eve,” she said, the door to Ponsonby’s cell snapping shut behind her.

“Upstairs, now,” Tanner panted.“Tell me you got through to Ponsonby.”

“She wants R.I thought we could send one of Dvorak’s to get her.”Tanner swore loudly.“What happened now?”

“The men in Algiers—the ones who got there before we did— they bagged Trevelyan.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He was alive when they caught him, but I don’t know about now.Bond and Q can’t be found.It gets worse.Sadler’s doesn’t know yet, but only because he’s found one of Ponsonby’s—Fourteen.”

“0014,” Moneypenny said.“Sadler found a double-0 agent? You’re sure?”

Tanner cursed again.“Sadler’s out for blood.He didn’t tell us he was on a witch hunt, but it looks like he’s actually turned something up.If we don’t hurry, this is going to be an execution.Sadler sent a bloody army, and Fourteen’s at Cambridge.Collateral is going to be catastrophic unless we get someone capable in there to defuse the situation.”

“R’s at Cambridge,” Moneypenny said, her mouth dry.Then: “You need to stop him.”

“How?” Tanner asked.“Only people with those kinds of skills are double-0s, and we don’t have any.Even if you go to Ponsonby now, Sadler’s men are already on their way.”

Moneypenny punched the dial for the elevators repeatedly.She could feel her pulse rising under her skin.“Listen, if 0014 gets put under and we’re the ones pulling the trigger—if anyone in the SIS is guilty—the rest of the double-0 section will rise up all right—against us.They’re protective of their own.You need to stop Sadler.”

Tanner said what Moneypenny already knew: “I can’t.”


	33. Disrespect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziqiang and Kohut meet in private to discuss recent events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to mistflyer1102 for helping me beat this work into submission.

“You are late,” Fu Ziqiang said.

Aleksey Kohut sat down beside her on the stone bench in the little garden she kept off of her quarters.He’d returned to Wuhan at her request.It was late, dark and warm, and the air was still.

“Anastas called,” Kohut said.He spoke her native dialect of Mandarin.“Took longer than I expected.Mind if I smoke?”

Ziqiang frowned but gestured for him to continue.As he lit a thin cigarette, the flames from his match momentarily illuminated his face, but he soon faded back into the dark of the night.

“We’ve been summoned,” Kohut said after taking a drag.“All of the leaders.He wants us in Moscow.It’s not good.”

“What now?” Ziqiang asked.She could imagine many reasons why Anastas might wish for them to reconvene so soon, and she liked none of them.Before their last meeting a few weeks ago, it had been years since they’d all met together.The change was most unwelcome.

Kohut growled.“Someone grabbed the oldest, Aleksandr,” he said.“In Algiers.Anastas wants blood.He probably thinks it’s one of us.”Kohut thought for a moment.“He’d probably be right.”

“What of the other one?”

“The other brother?Escaped, or else wasn’t the target.”

Ziqiang tapped her cane against the ground.“Do you seek reassurance that I made no move without you?”

Kohut bowed his head briefly.“I didn’t think you would, but…”

Ziqiang held up a hand.“I can assuage any doubts you may have.I have made no move,” she said.“And you?”

“Neither have I,” Kohut said.“Not since last we spoke.I’m a man of my word.”

Kohut’s face was difficult to see through the dark, but he’d given Ziqiang no reason to distrust him.Few could say so much.

“Then who?” Ziqiang asked.“A force so large could not be mustered easily.”

Ziqiang heard Kohut shift beside her.He was a restless soul, disinclined to be still.“Laurentin,” Kohut snarled.Ziqiang smiled.“He’s the rat to blame.He killed Anastas’ aide, and probably killed his own to hide the evidence. I suspected it then, but I’m sure now.He’s been causing trouble for years, and now he has set his sights on bigger prey.”

“You do not approve of his methods and research,” Ziqiang said.They both did, in truth.“I believe this colors your judgment.”

“You think me mistaken?”

Ziqiang took a moment to think.“Laurentin has very few men of his own,” she said.“When we were last gathered here, he had his aide, stolen from your ranks, if I’m not mistaken, and a few others, all scientists.”Ziqiang noted as Kohut clenched his fists at the mere suggestion of Nika Musiał.Kohut was protective of his own; to have a defector from within the ranks, even to a supposed ally, had been a low blow.“I suspect that Laurentin would have killed Anastas’ aide, but there were others here who did that for him.”

“You know this how?” Kohut demanded.

Ziqiang glared at Kohut.“This is my house,” she said firmly.“I know all that occurs within these walls.”

Kohut bowed his head lightly and apologized.

“That being said, Laurentin alone could not have orchestrated the attack on Aleksandr.He has no warriors of his own, and little in the way of capital with which to hire mercenaries.He would have needed assistance.”

“You think Mirek’s the guilty one.”

She pursed her lips.“He is the remaining option.”

Kohut laughed.“You dislike him because he fails to show you respect.He’s slime who only cares about the money.”

“If Laurentin is to blame,” Ziqiang said, twisting her hands around her cane, “and there is no doubt that he is, to some extent, we still have the problem of Mirek.It is likely that Laurentin is using Mirek as a prop to eliminate Anastas, followed shortly by both of us.We will need to dispose of him sooner rather than later.”

Kohut sat back.Ziqiang thought he might be staring at the sky, but more likely he was simply twisting his neck.She could convince him yet, but his hatred of Adam ran deep.

“Laurentin may have been involved,”Ziqiang said, speaking softly now.“But by himself, he has nothing but his experiments to keep him company.Mirek is his only ally.When he is gone, there will be nothing to keep Anastas from replacing Laurentin.”

Kohut took a long drag on his cigarette.“We need to be careful about this,” he said.“If Mirek or Laurentin suspects, our operations will be jeopardized more so than they already are.”

Ziqiang breathed deeply.“I believe Laurentin already knows,” she said.“Anastas has not been quiet with his displeasure regarding the nature of his work, nor have you.”

“We have been plenty careful,” Kohut snarled.

Ziqiang laid a firm hand on his shoulder.“I did not say otherwise,” she said, “but snakes always know more than they should.”She felt Kohut relax bit by bit and sighed.Placating men was not and had never been her strong suit.Her operatives were women for a reason.

“If,” Kohut said stiffly, “Mirek takes the fall, Laurentin might believe himself a free man.”

“That would be ideal, would it not?” Ziqiang asked.

Kohut leaned back again, and this time Ziqiang knew that he was seriously considering the matter at hand.She could make him see the light yet.“Men like him are proud,” Kohut said.“They think themselves careful, yet leave themselves open to the most foolish of mistakes.”He huffed.“If he believes he’s won, he will fall.”

Ziqiang smiled lightly to herself, confident that Kohut couldn’t see it.It took one to know one, she thought.She was not, however, prepared to vocalize that thought.

“And you and I will be there to give him the final push,” Ziqiang said instead.

“Yes,” Kohut said.Ziqiang heard him turn toward her.“You are right.”

Ziqiang knew she was right.“We will have their blood,” she said, “drop by drop, one by one.Mirek first.”

“Mirek first,” Kohut echoed.“Drop by drop.”

A silence fell between them.Insects sang in the night.A stiff breeze picked up for a moment, then dropped just as quickly.

“Anastas mentioned a potential replacement for Laurentin,” Kohut said finally.Ziqiang shook her head.

“Then he is not being careful enough,” she said.

Kohut made a noise Ziqiang didn’t know how to decipher.“It does not matter now,” he said, “for what is done is done.Anastas hardly speaks to anyone anymore.So far as I know, I’m the only one he’s told about this.”

“He mourns his aide,” Ziqiang said.She did her best to keep the derision out of her voice.

“Maybe,” Kohut answered, “but about the replacement.She’s an Englishwoman.Her name is Anna Schirmer.She consulted for the SIS.”

Ziqiang’s hands tightened, and her nails dug into the wood of her cane.

“I know not of this woman,” she said.

“She’s a physicist, like Laurentin,” Kohut said.“Anastas believes her to be a good fit.”Kohut hesitated, and Ziqiang frowned.“There’s something else,” he said, his voice tightening.“Something I overheard Anastas say to his dead aide.”Ziqiang waited as Kohut swallowed.He was nervous.

“What have you failed to tell me, Aleksey?” Ziqiang asked.She kept her voice neutral and guarded even as her hands threatened to shake.

“It’s about the one who interrogated her—the aide, I forget her name,” he said finally.“Anastas said he would tell you, but…”

“But he has said nothing to me in weeks,” Ziqiang said, filling the silence.“Speak.”

“Yin Lee has resurfaced.”

Ziqiang shut her eyes and bowed her head.“Yin Lee,” she repeated.“That is not a name I have heard in a long time.”

“According to the conversation between Anastas and his aide, her whereabouts have been known for some time,” Kohut said.“She has been with Loelia Ponsonby at the SIS.”

An involuntary growl rose in the back of Ziqiang’s throat.

“He lied to me,” she said.

“It appears so,” Kohut answered.“What is our move?”

“You did not tell me,” Ziqiang seethed, “that he lied to me.”

Kohut must have sensed that he’d crossed a line because he shifted away from Ziqiang.One of her hands darted out to grab his arm.She squeezed.

“You did not tell me,” Ziqiang said again.

With a breath, Kohut said, “My apologies.I meant you no disrespect.”

Ziqiang forced herself to stay still.Striking at Kohut now would only hinder her plans.She needed him to remove Bureš and Adam.

“Do not give me reason to distrust you,” she said.“There will be enough graves to dig without adding one for each of us.”

Kohut did not relax.“I ask your forgiveness.”

“You have it,” Ziqiang said, “but I do not forget.”

She withdrew her hand.Gingerly, Kohut resituated himself beside her.

“Once the dust has settled, I personally will help you extract revenge against Lee,” Kohut said.Ziqiang listened to his voice and found nothing but an earnest honesty.He was sorry for withholding the information, in his own way.Truly, Anastas was the one to blame.He knew how she’d sought Lee for years.

“Until then, we move against Mirek together,” Kohut said, “then we take out Laurentin.”

“No,” Ziqiang said.“We move together, this is true, but it is Anastas who will clear the ranks.”

“I always thought you liked a good bloodbath,” Kohut said.

Ziqiang smiled through the dark.“I do,” she said.“I do.”


	34. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for making this presentable!

0014 had one new message.It was from 0012.

_They’re coming._

_How many?_ 0014 asked.

_Too many._

0014 sighed and pocketed his mobile.He’d had four weeks of quiet since Clarke called to tell him that Ponsonby was back with MI6.It didn’t take two guesses to know what that meant.She’d handed herself in, but she was biding her time, waiting for 0014 to make his final disappearing act before she made hers.Say what you would about her, she was dedicated to her agents, more so than anyone else at MI6.

 _How many?_ 0014 asked again.0012 didn’t respond.They weren’t supposed to be communicating with each other at all, not anymore.That had been one of Ponsonby’s only requests.It was as much for each other as it was for her, really; the less contact they made, the less chance of being found by any part of the SIS in the future.That was all Ponsonby really wanted: if her agents wouldn’t stay on without her, she was damn well going to be sure that they weren’t hunted like dogs for it.

0014 sighed and shut his eyes.MI6—or MI5, whoever was calling the shots nowadays—had found him all right.He was the hunted.Under any other circumstances, this wouldn’t have been a problem, except…

Except, he was sitting at the back of one of the lecture halls in Cambridge, listening to the woman he’d slowly grown to know as Dr. Schirmer give a lecture on fission.

If they found him here, they would suspect her of harboring him.They would be absolutely correct, but he couldn’t have that, not now.He’d likely been marked as a traitor, and if they were linked, she would be, too.In addition, while Anastas hadn’t made a move to recruit R while 0014 was there, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t.If MI6 antagonized her, they would only put Anastas in a good position to bargain for her services, if he so chose.Too risky.

He’d have to leave her behind, then.He grimaced.He’d have to leave her behind, but he’d have to leave some indication that theirs hadn’t been a friendly relationship.0014 wished he had more time because that would be one hell of a hard sell.0014 had learned early in their relationship that R was a stupendously bad liar, and many of her students had taken notice of his ubiquitous presence.They thought they were lovers.It was slightly more believable than the truth.

0014 slouched in his seat.He’d have to make some sort of display—something to show that R had been harboring him, yes, but that something had changed and he’d turned on her.She wouldn’t have to lie and everything would fit together nicely.Men like him were erratic, and MI6 would pick up on that immediately.They would chastise her with an I-told-you-so mentality, but they’d be more interested to see what she had to offer than anything else.After all, if a rogue double-0 agent wanted you dead, you had to be worth something.

Maybe they would even take her to Ponsonby.0014 had been trying to figure out how to get R back into the building short of breaking her in himself.He didn’t think Ponsonby would have enough time with R if alarms were blaring and every single operative in the Service converged all at once.

A plan formed in his mind.0014 smiled slightly to himself and straightened up.He’d done worse things to better people.He’d survive.

He waited until he heard trucks and the shouts of angry, armed men—his welcoming committee, he was sure—before he stood.

“Excuse me, everyone,” he said loudly, picking up his bag.“Excuse me, everyone remain calm, now, would you?Scream and I put a bullet in your no-doubt brilliant brains.”He pulled out a gun and began to walk toward the front of the lecture hall.Most students froze in their seats, doing their best to shrink in on themselves.One boy screamed, and a girl covered his face to shut him up.

At the front of the room, R had stepped away from her computer and advanced toward him.

“Ah,” 0014 tutted, pointing at her.“No, no.Wouldn’t want to get one of your students shot because of your mistake, now, would you?”

0014 was to the bottom of the stairs now.The students behind him were whispering.0014 took a single shot, deliberately aimed at the soft floors to prevent ricochet.He wanted them scared, not hurt.

“Quiet,” he drawled.He turned back to R.“Now, then, for the rat who gave me up.”

0014 must have looked convincing because the panic in R’s eyes was palpable.She moved to strike at him but he moved faster.He did his best to dial back his swing, but her head still swung violently to one side as her body tried to crumple in on itself.

“No use lying there,” 0014 said, hoisting her back up.To the students, several of whom had stood, he said, “You move and she dies.Sit down and stay there.”

He heard rather than saw them sit.His eyes were fixed on the furious woman doing her best to regain her balance in front of him.Her cheek was bleeding.He felt bad, but there wasn’t much to do about it.

0014 grabbed her throat but did not squeeze.To all the world, it might have looked like a threat, and that was the point.But, for all that it was a stupid idea, 0014 didn’t want to leave R with the wrong impression.He’d started to like her.She was smart.He liked smart.

He whispered in her ear, “They’re coming here now to kill me.You’d be executed for treason if you were found out.Take care of yourself, love.”

0014 heard R’s slight intake of breath as she registered what he’d said.With a slight nod, 0014 slipped back into character and fired five shots at the floor.Behind him, several students screamed.In his arms, R shook in shock.

To R, 0014 yelled, “I asked you if you understood.”

R nodded furiously.“I understand,” she said.The quaver in her voice was not forced.

0014 swung R around.“You’re going to be my shield,” he said, keeping a firm grip on her throat.He forced her to run toward the exit and into the hall, then outside.There would be few enough people there that any collateral damage would be minimized, but he was still seen with his “target”.

As expected, there were a few students outside, but they were horribly outnumbered by the men in uniform telling him to surrender.0014 didn’t listen to what they were saying.

“This is it,” he said simply.0014 had plenty of guns and explosives, the things he carried on his person at all times, but until he got off of English soil, he’d be run down hard.It didn’t matter because it was too late to turn back now.He wished he’d had more time.

0014 shoved R forward and ran.


	35. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have no self control whatsoever.)
> 
> Many, many thanks to mistflyer1102 for making this readable!

Bond stole a car from the outskirts of Algiers.Q sat silently in the passenger seat as they drove along the A1 heading west toward Chlef.He gazed without expression at the scenery and at other cars as it all whizzed by.Ultimately, they’d go to Morocco.Bond had worked in Tangier and Fes before.Crossing the border would be something of a challenge, as would avoiding the “checkpoints” that riddled the roads, but he wasn’t worried.If anything, it would feel something like home turf.

After that, Bond wasn’t sure.There were very few safe places for them now that an unknown third party—Bond was very sure now that the initial forces they’d fought in Algiers weren’t affiliated with MI6—had taken an active and violent interest in their lives.

They’d been driving for several hours before either of them spoke.

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

Q’s voice was hoarse.Bond risked a glance away from the road.If Bond hadn’t known better, he would have said that Q looked serene, or at the very least impassive.Bond had no idea what Q was feeling, but he guessed it was nothing comfortable.

Bond thought of Trevelyan.Trevelyan, more reckless than he, but faster, too.Trevelyan, who often managed to detonate things and situations alike without really trying.Trevelyan, who fell in love with a woman with a burned hand, crooked teeth, and the will to fight.

“I don’t know,” Bond said, biting back all of the comforting lies.Q wouldn’t appreciate them, would see through them, and would hate Bond for them.Bond couldn’t have Q’s hatred, not now.

“But they have him.”

Bond’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.They—whoever they were—they had Trevelyan all right.Q and Bond had caught a glimpse of a TV set when they stole the car.A few seconds had been enough to know that Trevelyan had been apprehended.

“There’s nothing we could have done,” Bond said shortly.He wished immediately afterward that he hadn’t.He could think of many, many things that could have been done.All of them involved Bond staying behind.Most involved keeping Q nearby as well.Bond couldn’t—no, would never—risk that.

Bond heard Q open his mouth, then shut it.Whatever he wanted to say, Q kept it to himself.

* * *

They met a “checkpoint” just past Chlef.  Three cars, all badly marked to look official, were pulled off to the side of the road.  Three men, obviously armed, flagged Bond down.  Q wordlessly handed Bond the semiautomatic he’d been sitting on since they’d left Algiers.

Bond broke both of the arms on one, shot out the kneecaps of a second, and beat the third until his fists were bloody and the man had stopped screaming.He only stopped when Q got out of the car and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We need to get moving,” Q said.Bond wiped his knuckles on the trousers of the man he’d finished pulverizing.

“He’s still alive,” Bond said, offering Q his hands when prompted as he stood.

“Good,” Q said.“We don’t need local police following us for murder on top of everything else.”He tugged Bond toward the trio of cars that made up the “checkpoint”.“Come on.I’m a terrible driver and your knuckles are going to swell.”

Q found a first-aid kit stashed under one of the seats and bound Bond’s knuckles as best as he could.It was an inexpert job, one Bond knew he could have done better himself, but Q kissed the bandages when he’d finished and gave a heartfelt sigh.

“Thank you,” Bond said.He couldn’t have kept the fondness out of his voice if he’d tried.

“You are always welcome.”

* * *

Bond and Q crossed the border almost without incident, ignoring the three wounded guards they left in their wake.  They stopped for gas across the border, and Q did something to the machine that made it forget that they hadn’t paid.  Q fell asleep sometime after that, when the sun had gone down, and Bond continued to drive.  Q snored lightly beside him in the passenger seat, and the sound kept Bond awake: it was a constant reminder why he had to keep moving.

They arrived in Fes early the next morning.Bond checked them into a very small hotel and carried Q to their room.

“Here?” Q asked sleepily.

Without knowing what the question really meant, Bond said, “Yes.”He set Q down on the tiny thing that passed for a bed.He could hear Q strip off his filthy clothes as he checked the space.It wasn’t particularly clean, but Bond could find no wires and no broken locks.They’d be having no surprises for the next few hours, or so he hoped.

Bond made sure to lock the door and check the windows one last time before looking back at Q.Even in the dark, the contrast between Q’s hair and his skin was stark.It was warm, but Q liked the weight of blankets when he slept regardless of temperature and so he’d already wormed his way under what he could.Bond could see the shadows gathered at Q’s knees and pelvis from the folds in the sheets as they settled around him.Bond could have traced every divot, notch, and glide of Q’s body from a distance.

Come what may, though, Bond would always consider himself a lucky man because he didn’t have to.He had permission to touch, to sweep his hands across the expanse of Q’s ribs and around to his back, to count vertebrae and plant kisses between them, with the knowledge that Q would smile and kiss him back.

Bond shucked his clothes as he crossed the room to come to stand over Q.He was already most of the way to sleep again, but he woke some when he saw Bond.

“Thanks,” Q said.Bond sat on the edge of the bed as Q reached up a single hand to cup Bond’s face.Bond held it there.

Q wormed to one side until he was almost hanging off of the bed.Bond took the message and shook his head.

“You know I won’t fit.”

Q made a face.“I don’t bite,” he said.His words were somewhat slurred, and he was already falling back to sleep.

Bond chuckled and did his best to slide in next to Q.He was right, he wouldn’t have fit, but Q rolled himself over onto Bond, nestling his nose into the crook of Bond’s neck.The sheets slid down to settle just above Q’s sacrum.Bond brought his arms around to embrace Q, splaying his hands across his back.

“Night,” Q said.Bond could feel his exhale against his skin.

“Good night.”

* * *

“I need one.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Bond folded his arms and shut his eyes.“You’re making that face again,” he said.

“I am not.”Bond heard Q huff and opened his eyes.

“Yes,” Bond said.“You are.”

Q smiled.“Maybe.But my point stands.I need a laptop.”

“It’s too risky.I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”

“I never said you had to,” Q said reasonably, “I just said that we needed one, and that you’d probably need to steal it."Bond didn’t budge.“We need cash, and access to a reliable data stream outside of local media.I can get that, but only if I have something with internet access.”

Bond felt his resolve chipping away.It always did when Q wore that look.“Aren’t you worried it’ll be traced?”

Q shook his head.“Whoever took Alec managed to find us in the dark,” he said.“As for MI6, we take our chances.They have to realize they have bigger issues than us at the moment.”

Q’s logic was nothing if not seductive.Bond would have given almost anything to know if it was right or not.

“We don’t know for sure,” Bond pointed out.“For all we know, Six did grab Alec and now they’re looking for us.”

With a sigh, Q sat back against the headboard.Sunlight streaming in through the window cast shadows across his face.Outside, men on mopeds zoomed by, shouting at one another in a mishmash of Moroccan Arabic and a handful of Berber dialects.

“Q,” Bond tried.

“We can find him,” Q said.His arms stretched out to his knees, clasping them loosely.Bond sighed and hung his head.

“What happens when we do?” he asked.Q looked at him.Gone was the playful look that all but guaranteed that Q got his way.Bond found it hard to look at Q now, even knowing that he wasn’t directly responsible.

“You think if we don’t go back for him, they’ll leave us alone,” Q said.

Bond resisted the urge to cross his arms like a petulant child.“I can’t risk you,” he said.

“Afraid I’ll get you caught?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Bond snapped.Q’s face went blank.“Q.”

“Stop,” Q said.“You promised me you wouldn’t do this.”

“Wouldn’t do what, Q?Wouldn’t try to protect you?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Q snapped.Bond shut his mouth.“You promised me you wouldn’t use our relationship to try to define what I can and cannot do.James, I may love you, but that doesn’t make me some wilting flower or damsel that you need to save.”Q shot out of bed, and Bond lurched off of the wall he’d been leaning against as if to stop him.Bond forced himself to stay still as Q closed in on him.If he leaned forward just a little, he could kiss him.Bond didn’t think Q would ever forgive him for it if he did.

“I came so close,” Bond said instead, “so very close to losing you.”

“I know,” Q said, “and how many times have I almost lost you?”

Bond couldn’t count them all if he’d wanted to.Operations blurred in his head like ink in the rain.In front of him, Q laid his head against Bond’s chest.

“If the places were reversed, and he was here and you weren’t, what would he do?”

Bond cradled Q’s head in one hand and wrapped the other around his waist.“I don’t have to ask,” Bond said quietly, “and neither do you.But it’s us.”

“Promise me,” Q said into Bond’s chest.Bond hummed, and Q shuffled so that they could look each other in the eye.Q wasn’t short enough to be looked down upon, but hunched over as he was, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, Bond had the feeling he was holding onto a shrinking thing that could disappear at any moment.“Promise me,” Q said, firmer.

“I promise,” Bond said, wishing the words didn’t taste like ash in his mouth.“We’ll bring him back together.”

If bile rose in the back of his throat at the thought of putting Q in any sort of danger, seeing Q smile, even slightly, made Bond’s soul sing.

* * *

Bond returned two hours later with a laptop, its cables, several wallets, and lunch.

“Your sticky fingers never fail to impress,” Q said.

“You give them plenty of practice,” Bond purred, coming in to kiss Q on the cheek.The rough innuendo was worthwhile for the sight of Q’s face going a hot red.Someone else might have said that it wasn’t the time for it, but then Bond had never been known for his timing.“Could use some more, though.Might be getting rusty.”

Q giggled, just a little breathy.“I always knew you got off on petty crimes,” he said.“Explains why you’ve stolen so many guns from Q Division.”

Bond hummed, knowing Q could feel the vibrations from his lips.“Stealing from you has always had a certain appeal,” Bond agreed.“Seeing you flustered.That’s why I stole this.”He curved an arm around Q’s back so that his hand could rest against Q’s chest.

Q knocked him lightly in the side, but his blush didn’t abate.“You’re a bloody hopeless romantic,” Q said.

“No helping me,” Bond agreed cheerfully.“Though, I suppose, if you really wanted to help…”

“After lunch,” Q agreed, pulling himself out of Bond’s grip.“Food’s getting cold.”

“Really?You seem to be getting hotter every second.”

“ _James._ ”

“Yes, dear.”

* * *

Another two hours later, during which Bond had demonstrated several uses for his talented fingers, he and Q were tangled in the sheets, full and sated.  Bond sat up against the headboard where Q had been earlier.  Q draped himself over Bond’s legs and used his chest as a prop for the laptop.  He had all of Bond’s stolen apparatus up and running, and Bond watched as Q’s fingers danced across the keyboard.  A handful of programs from shady sites with passcode accesses were downloading in the background as Q changed the laptop’s configurations.

“You don’t know how to use the keyboard it already has?” Bond teased.

“I can understand standard Arabic,” Q said, punching a few keys rather harder than absolutely necessary, “and I can make out most of the spoken dialects, but bloody hell if I can write and type in it.There.”He gave the screen a half-grin and looked up at Bond.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Bond asked.He stroked Q’s shoulder idly with one hand.He knew he ought to check the hotel, make sure no one was looking for them, but he didn’t have the heart to move Q.Besides that, he felt calm.

“Not at the moment,” Q said, his eyes moving slowly back to the screen.The effect was an appreciative drag across Bond’s bare skin, and Bond pinched him for it.“I had a thought,” Q said.

“Of the carnal variety?” Bond asked.

“Be serious,” Q said.“We do have some business to attend to.”Bond resumed rubbing Q’s shoulders.Q arched into the touch.

“Tell me,” Bond said softly.

“In Algiers,” Q said, his eyes on the screen, “the first group to attack, the ones who posed as MI6 but weren’t?”

“The mercenaries?” Bond asked.

“Right, but now I’m not so sure that’s what they were,” Q said.The laptop’s speakers popped to life with tinny explosions and rapid-fire dialectal Arabic.“At least, I don’t think MI6 hired them.I’m watching the clips that have been posted online,” Q continued, “and yes, exactly.”

“Exactly what?” Bond asked.He craned to see the screen but couldn’t do so without moving.Q did the work for him and turned the laptop around.

“Here,” Q said.“Look at the faces.”

Bond squinted at the screen.It was difficult to make out any defining characteristics given the shaky, blurry nature of the footage.

“We were there, Q,” Bond said flatly.“I didn’t recognize any of them until the real MI6 arrived.”

Q sighed.“No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.Thing is, I did.”

“What?” Bond asked, a little sharper than he’d intended.

“I wasn’t sure until I checked just now,” Q said grimly, his eyes transfixed by the endless series of shots—mostly of Ines going down and Trevelyan being captured.Few bits of the footage available online showed Bond, and Q only appeared once as a shadow behind him.“There,” Q said, pausing the video.He pointed at a man just coming into the frame from the right.

“Who is he?” Bond asked.

“Jonathan Caldwell,” Q said.“I’m almost entirely certain.”Bond frowned.“You probably know the name,” Q continued, speaking Bond’s mind.“He was one of the higher-ups in Operations in MI5.”

Bond stopped short.“Section Five?” he asked slowly.

“That’s right.He was on the Board of Inquiries when I was tried,” Q said.Bond could hear the tightness in his voices at the mention of the Board.Bond hadn’t been allowed to sit in on the proceedings that had followed Skyfall, and though Q had come out with his position and his permissions intact, he hadn’t been entirely unscathed.

“Funny thing,” Q said, “I heard he was killed in action a year ago.Five wrote an obituary.M went to the service.I hear they were old friends.”Q dropped the blasé tone as he said, “Wait a minute.”He turned up the volume on the laptop and set it back a few seconds.

On the screen, Ines went down.Bullets were flying from all directions, and it was impossible to tell which of the two factions had killed her.

“Can you understand what he’s saying?” Q asked.“The man who took the film.He starts talking when Ines collapses.”

Bond tilted his head.“Turn it up and go back,” he said.Q obliged, and Bond listened rather than watched.

“He’s cursing,” Bond said.“He knows her name.”Bond frowned.“Run that one by me again.”Q backed up a few seconds, and Bond listened a second time.“He says that’s his sister.Wasn’t the same man bragging before about killing us for justice?”

“Ines mentioned a louse of a brother,” Q said slowly.

“And another sister,” Bond added.“Living in Cambridge.”

Q cursed.“He turned her in,” he spat, spewing a few more curses.“He sent them to us.It’s how they found us.”


	36. Ines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really want to warn everyone that the violence in this fic is about to...exponentially increase. Not in quantity, but in terms of how graphic it is, I guess. I freak myself out, I guess that's what I'm trying to say. Please please please take care.
> 
> Thanks to mistflyer1102 for making this chapter infinitely better!

Even before Trevelyan opened his eyes, he felt the pain.His skin was pulled too taut over his body.His legs felt like trunks, swollen and bruised, his right especially so.The right side of his face was numb until he tried to move it and a searing sensation took over.The rest of his body was a mass of delocalized agony.Taken together, his brain couldn’t decide between lashing out and being sick.The latter sensation won over.

“Unfortunate,” a voice in front of him said.“Now you’ll have to smell it.”Apparently to someone else, the voice said, “Bring her up, please.”

Trevelyan forced his eyes open.His left was swollen shut, and opening his right activated the pain in his face.He appeared to be surrounded by four white walls, a white ceiling, and a now vomit-covered white floor.A few excruciating blinks later and Trevelyan realized that the wall before him was not itself white but clear.It looked out onto a mostly-white room.An enormous blimp hung in the middle, and a middle-aged man stood before it.

The man shook his head.“So glad you could join us, Alec.I wasn’t sure you would wake, and it would have been such a shame.You were very difficult to apprehend.A mere autopsy wouldn’t have satisfied me.”

Trevelyan growled and lurched forward, trying to get to his feet.Something around his arms and legs held him back and he crashed into the wall behind him.

Outside of Trevelyan’s cage, the man laughed.“This is not my first time,” he said, wagging a finger.“What do you think they always do, when they wake up?They try to get out.You,” the man said, approaching, “you are just too valuable.You’ll be staying right where you are.”

The man stood in front of Trevelyan’s cage.Trevelyan did his best to breathe deeply.He felt fluid in his lungs and coughed to no avail.

“I’m afraid you and I won’t have much time together,” the man said, looking him over critically.“You were injured far more severely than I’d hoped during your retrieval.Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but I was so hoping to savor you.”

A door at the far end of the room opened and a scrawny man in a lab coat stepped inside.

“Sir,” the new man said.He was too far away for Trevelyan to see his face.“You’ve been summoned.”

The man standing in front of Trevelyan turned halfway toward the new speaker.His lips curled in a grimace.

“Your father,” he said to Trevelyan.“How unfortunate.Let’s hope it goes quickly.Let me guess, Moscow?”

“Sir,” the new arrival affirmed.“It’s tomorrow morning.You have a few hours before you’ll need to be in the air.”

“Of course,” the man before Trevelyan murmured.“Tell him I’ll be there promptly.I’d speak to him myself, of course, but I’m rather up to my neck in such nasty work.”

He smiled at Trevelyan.Trevelyan spat at the glass.

“Nasty,” the man echoed.In the distance, the new arrival left.

“Anastas is going to be so very angry,” the man continued.“No doubt the summit’s about you.He and the rest of the world think that MI6 have you, but they don’t.I do.”He grinned brightly.“And what a thing it is, having you.I should have gone for you in the first place—strong and resilient.Your brother wouldn’t have lasted two days in my care, and only if I felt generous.”

 _Q._ Trevelyan forced himself to come to stillness.Whoever the lunatic outside of his cells was, he suggested that Q hadn’t been caught.He and Bond must have escaped.

“Who are you?” he asked, wishing his tongue weren’t so sluggish.

The man tutted.“You don’t need to know that,” he said.“You’re going to die for a worthwhile cause.That,” he said, turning away from Trevelyan, “is all you need to know.”

Trevelyan said, “You wish.”

“Your arrogance is astounding,” the man said without turning around.He stopped at a desk and began rifling through a set of papers.“So very like your father.I’m no geneticist, but I’d wager there’s something in your blood that matches his in that regard.Perhaps I’ll find out.”He picked up one of the sheets and examined it.

“I intend to break you,” the man said suddenly, “in every imaginable way.”

“Good luck,” Trevelyan said.He forced himself to grin.

The man sighed.“You imagine you’re a survivor, don’t you?” he asked.He sat at his desk and steepled his fingers.“You think you’re special—immune, perhaps—or at least exempt from death.I can assure you, there is nothing special about you.You are a very small pawn on a very big chessboard.”

“And yet,” Trevelyan managed to get out—his face ached, “here I am.”

“And yet,” the man echoed.“And yet.That means that you have use to me, as does all sentient, higher life on this planet—that is, to the uneducated mind, humans.”Trevelyan arched an eyebrow and immediately wished he hadn’t.Pain shot into his forehead, and in wincing, he pulled at his arms and legs, which in turn left him boneless, sagging helplessly against the wall to which he was bound.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the man advised, “but I take it you’re not one for following orders.”He smiled thinly.“We can fix that.”He unclasped his fingers and looked at the ceiling.“You see, humans are tremendously interesting creatures.So very delicate, but you know that.I trained as a physicist, but I’m interested in how people work, and how they can evolve—how they can die.”He turned his gaze back to Trevelyan.“Were it not for that interest, you would have been killed in Algiers and left to rot.As it is, autopsies are much less interesting than live experimentation.

“I believe,” the man said, “I will begin with your mind.”

“My mind,” Trevelyan said, breathing heavily.His body was starting to feel even more weighted than it had before.

“You’re going to start to feel the effects of an airborne sedative soon,” the man said.“The thing about these chambers is how cleverly they’re designed.I hardly need to touch you to do what I need.”He nodded to himself.“Your mind, yes.I don’t generally perform autopsies upstairs, but for you I’m willing to make a special exception.”Trevelyan heard something nearby, and though he could not see where the sound came from, he saw the smile on the man’s face grow.

“Just in time,” the man said.Two people with surgeon’s masks wheeled a gurney to the fore of the room.A black bag lay across the top. _Body bag_ , Trevelyan’s mind helpfully supplied.He slumped in place, and it was a struggle just to keep his head up.With synchronized nods, the two people returned from whence they came, leaving the gurney and its contents right before Trevelyan’s cell.

The man unzipped the bag.

If Trevelyan hadn’t already been sick, he would have done so then.

“So you did care for her,” the man said.“I’ll be honest, I hadn’t believed it.Her brother worked hard to convince me of it, but until now… Yes, this will be interesting.”Louder, he continued.“Life is such a fickle thing.It can be bought or sold, and it exists in so many different conditions.Putrefaction, on the other hand, is chemistry.Rote and to the point.She isn’t far gone, but she will be soon.”The man went to his desk and picked up a surgeon’s kit.As he returned, he continued, “I’ve used human tissues—blood and brain mostly, mind you—to derive sera for my experiments in the past.I believe I shall do so now with you.”He smiled at Trevelyan.“To be killed by one’s own lover.Such a romantic fate.You must be thrilled.”

Trevelyan pulled with all of his might and was once more brought back to the wall by the force of the bonds holding him.

“Does that anger you?” the man asked.“How about this?”He spat on the corpse’s face.

Trevelyan tried again.With muscles screaming for rest or oxygen or both, he did his best to propel himself forward.He envisioned coming free, breaking through the glass, and beating the man senseless.He’s spit in his face, he’d—

The man was laughing at Trevelyan’s struggles.Trevelyan hadn’t managed to come more than a few centimeters closer to the glass than he’d been before.His left arm felt as though it had been ripped out of its socket.

“I developed those chains years ago,” he said.“No one’s escaped them yet.They’re hard-wired, too.I could light you up like an electric chair.For now, though,” the man said, turning his attention to the body at his disposal, “I think we ought to begin.”


	37. Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ponsonby shows her hand (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks (as always) to mistflyer1102 :D

R sat shivering in the back of the van.Absurdly, all she could think of were her lecture notes.They ran on repeat in her head. _Fission is a form of nuclear transmutation.It can be induced by a neutron, or it can be what’s termed spontaneous fission, the likes of which can be easily recognized in uranium._

“Dr. Schirmer,” a man in front of her said.“Dr. Schirmer, this is important, please pay attention.”

R looked at him.He was a handsome man with glasses and a lovely suit.His cufflinks winked at her when they caught the light.They were probably worth more than an entire year’s pay.

“Dr. Schirmer,” he said again.The cufflinks blinked at her again.

“What,” R said, dragging her eyes back up, “do you want?”

The van hit a bump, and R flopped in her seat.She felt like all of the bones had been softened, reducing her spine to jelly.

“You’re in shock, Dr. Schirmer,” the man said.“You were hurt.”

“Hurt,” R repeated.She reached up to touch her face where she remembered being hit.A thin bandage covered the area, but she could feel swelling underneath.0014 had hit her.She shut her eyes.

“That’s right,” the man said.“You passed out on the green, so you likely don’t remember.As such, we haven’t been formally introduced.My name’s Ward.I’m with Section Five.”

“As opposed to Section Six?” R asked.Ward nodded once, or R thought he did.The van was hitting several patches of bumpy road, so it was hard to tell.“Where are we going?”

“Classified headquarters,” Ward answered.“London.You’re in a convoy.As soon as we arrive, you’ll be placed into protective custody.You will be safe, Doctor.”

“What happened to…” R trailed off before she could answer.She didn’t want to know what had happened to 0014.

Ward pursed his lips.“The man who attacked you has been apprehended,” he said shortly.“We were hoping you could tell us something about him before we arrived.”

“What do you want to know?”The question was out of R’s mouth before she could pull it back in.

Ward rearranged himself in his seat, stretching his legs out to take up the entirety of the middle of the van.R shrunk back so that their feet didn’t touch.“Agent Walker, otherwise known as 0014,” Ward said, oblivious to her discomfort, “has been living with you for the past four weeks.”

“Is that a question?” R asked.

“I didn’t think it was, but then again, he did throw you into the barrels of just under a hundred guns,” Ward said.“Never hurts to ask.”

“Yes, he has been with me for four weeks,” R answered.She hoped to God this was part of the plan because she didn’t know how to lie convincingly and the sidearm she saw underneath the man’s no-doubt expensive, tailored jacket spooked her.

“Were you lovers?” Ward asked, lowering his voice suggestively.

R’s face flushed.“No.”

“That was a very emphatic answer.”R glared at Ward.“Forgive me.Agents of his nature often take pleasure in the carnal aspects of life.I believe the job attracts a certain pathology, and with it comes a need for intimacy that, coupled with a distaste for personal connection, often leads to sexual flagrancy.”

“Was that English?” R asked flatly.

Ward smiled thinly.“Do you stand by your answer?”

“Yes,” R said.“We were not lovers.”

Ward took off his glasses and wiped each lens with his tie.“Yet you must have fought about something,” he pressed.“If it was not a crime of passion, it must have been something equally severe.It takes rage of a certain degree—a lover’s wrath, hence my assumption—to cast someone aside as he cast you.”

R looked at her knees. _They’re coming here now to kill me.You’d be executed for treason if you were found out.Take care of yourself, love._

“He thought I’d called you,” R said to her feet.“When he pulled a gun in the back of the lecture hall, he said so much.”

“But you weren’t the one to turn him in, were you,” Ward said.It wasn’t a question; they both knew that R had made no such call.“He didn’t trust you, and he abandoned you.” Ward sat on the very edge of his seat.R found it impossible not to bump legs anymore.The man either had no concept of space or else had decided to disregard it.“He threw you to the dogs to save his own skin.”

R forced herself to meet Ward’s eyes.He looked smug, as if he’d won a particularly difficult fight.She hated him in a way she hadn’t hated anyone for quite some time.

“You caught him, though,” R said slowly.“He didn’t get away.”

“No, he didn’t,” Ward said.He sounded even more smug than he looked.“We caught him.”He sighed.R thought it was for effect rather than anything else.

“But he’s alive?”

“For the time being.”

“Are you going to kill him?”

Ward leaned back a little yet managed to keep his legs exactly where they were.“Everyone dies eventually.”

R took that to mean _yes_.

Ward looked like he was getting ready to ask another question when his mobile rang.He gave that thin-lipped smile of his again.

“Mind if I take this?” he asked, the device halfway to his ear.R merely arched an eyebrow and prayed not to be carsick.

“Ward,” he said.Someone spoke on the other end.“Yes, we’re on our way back now with them both.”More talking, this time for longer.“Vauxhall?”Something short and snappish.“No, sir.”

The call ended.Ward knocked on the divider between himself and the driver.After a contemplative moment, it rolled away.

“Change of plans,” Ward said.“We’re headed to Vauxhall.”The driver nodded.

“I’ll send the orders down the line,” he said.

“Good,” Ward said.The divider was already rolling back into place.Ward took to glaring out the window.The silence was awkward and uncomfortable—Ward was clearly displeased with his new orders, whatever they were, and R had rather thought they were going to Vauxhall to begin with—but R kept her lips buttoned tight and tried not to lurch out of her seat with every jump of the van.

* * *

Two men were waiting in the lobby of the Vauxhall Headquarters when Ward escorted R inside.  R had to restrain her sigh of relief as she identified both of them.

“Mr. Misra, Mr. Dvorak,” Ward said, offering a hand.“It’s a pleasure to meet you both in person.Your work is extraordinary.”

Misra’s mouth remained a tight line, but Dvorak smiled hugely.

“Thanks,” Dvorak said.“We just enjoy our jobs.”

“Is that her?” Misra asked.He gestured at R as she looked to Dvorak.Dvorak winked, and R looked at the floor.

“Quite,” Ward said, unaware of the exchange.“Dr. Schirmer, your old Consultant R, was single-handedly responsible for the housing and care of the rogue 0014, Agent Walker.I’m given to understand that you two will be in charge of the,” Ward coughed lightly, “consequences.”

“Well,” Dvorak said, “it’s bad form to talk about it in front of the subject, now, isn’t it?”Ward coloured as Dvorak asked, “Are you new?”

“Martin,” Misra said.His tone was a warning.To Ward, he said, “We’ll take it from here.”

Ward recovered quickly and said, “I should certainly hope so.Your section has had its fair share of failures in the past few weeks.I personally would have rather handled this in-house, but I suppose orders are orders.”

“That they are,” Misra said.“You’re dismissed.”

“I would prefer to escort Dr. Schirmer inside with the two of you,” Ward said smoothly.“Who knows what she’s learned from four weeks with one of your, according to record, deadliest agents.”

“All due respect,” Dvorak said, chuckling, “you didn’t even cuff her.She’s standing next to you of her own volition—which is a testament of character in and of itself—so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.Is there, Dr. Schirmer?”

“I’ll cooperate,” R said, smiling slightly and hoping beyond hope that it was the right thing to say. _Fission is a form of nuclear transmutation._ “I don’t want to hamper operations any more than I already have.”

Misra slipped behind R.She heard the clink of metal but trusted that nothing harmful would come of it.The handcuffs were tight around her wrists in seconds as Ward and Dvorak looked thoughtfully on. _It can be induced by a neutron, or it can be what’s termed spontaneous fission_ …

Ward’s phone rang.While he took the call, Dvorak and Misra flanked R and began herding her out of the lobby and into the depths of headquarters.Ward called after them, but he was entirely ignored.

“Well,” Dvorak said to R, “hello again.Are we ever going to meet under good circumstances?”

Misra did his best to level Dvorak with a glare.“Silence,” he ordered.Dvorak rolled his eyes.Through his teeth, Misra ordered, “Stick to the plan.”

R looked between the two men.“What’s happening?” she asked.They approached a lift and climbed inside.Misra smashed two buttons and used a keycard to activate the lift.As it shuddered into motion, R stumbled, and the metal of the cuffs cut into her wrists noticeably.

“You’ve been summoned,” Dvorak said grandly.“Did you ever meet Argall?”The name rang a bell, but it was a rather rusty bell, so R shook her head to signify no.“Friend of Ponsonby’s, quite tall, with a thing for powerful women—” Misra glared at Dvorak again.“—was down in Q Division during the initial crisis?”The same rusty bell was ringing to no avail.Dvorak shrugged.“You’ll know her when you see her.”

“Why does she want to talk to me?”

“Don’t ask questions,” Misra ordered.“Martin, shut up.”

R shut her mouth and ignored the pointed looks Dvorak and Misra sent each other over her head.In spite of her silent reassurances to herself, her heart was pounding in her skull.She had a feeling that she’d made a grave miscalculation trusting that Dvorak and Misra had her best interests at heart, and the bite of the handcuffs only fanned the fires of doubt.

_…induced by uranium…_

The lift doors opened with a ping.A very tall woman with a tablet stood directly before them.

“Hello,” the woman said. _Argall_ , R thought distantly. _Her name is Argall_.“I’m Afanen Argall.We met, remember?”

“I remember,” R said softly.

“See?” Dvorak sounded proud of himself.Under his breath, Misra muttered, “Shut up.”

“Boys out,” Argall ordered.Misra stepped away from R as if her very presence had been odious.Dvorak was slower to exit the lift.

“Shouldn’t we come?” Dvorak asked.

“Out,” Argall ordered.“Actually— You cuffed her?”

“We had to get rid of the agent from Five,” Misra said curtly.He tossed Argall the keys.“It’s no longer a necessary ruse.”

“Why didn’t you uncuff her before now?” Argall asked loudly, twisting the key in the lock.R rubbed her wrists thoughtfully. 

“Why would we?” Misra shot back.R noticed that Argall was holding open the lift doors for the express purpose of arguing with Misra.

“Lalit,” Dvorak started, but Misra shook his head.

“I don’t like this,” Misra said.He turned and walked away from the lift.Dvorak looked after him.

“It’s been tough,” Dvorak said once his partner was out of earshot.“He came under some of the worst of the scrutiny when our department was raided.”

_Raided?_ R had no idea what he was talking about, but Argall nodded sympathetically.

“I know,” Argall said.“It’s still no reason to act like a child about it.We all knew the risks when we signed on.”

Dvorak looked pointedly at R, who looked at the floor.R wasn’t sure if she’d ever known anything at all about her work as a consultant with MI6, but she certainly wasn’t going to say so much now.

Argall let the lift doors close and tapped for one of the basement floors.

“How have you been holding up?” Argall asked.

“Does it matter?” R couldn’t quite hold back the acerbic tone.

“Of course,” Argall said.“You’re instrumental to the success of our operation.”

R grimaced.“Wonderful.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” R said, frowning at the lift doors as they continued their descent.“I just wish I weren’t.”

Argall sighed.“You agreed—”

“I agreed to consult for MI6 regarding matters of nuclear emergency,” R said.She’d been aiming for snappish, but she only sounded tired.“I agreed to spearhead a potential nuclear program to replace Trident.Whatever this is,” R said, sweeping her hands, “I didn’t know about, didn’t want to know about.I probably don’t have a job at all anymore because you, you—” R took a deep breath.Without looking, she sensed that Argall was staring at her with something akin to pity.All at once, she hated the tall woman standing next to her who had gotten her out of those dreadful handcuffs.“Ponsonby got me into this mess,” R said, “and I’ve been holed up with a murderer ever since.”

“I sincerely hope you view him as more than that,” Argall said sincerely, “given what he’s risked for you.”

“I have no obligation toward any of you.I should have told Ward—”

Argall abruptly straightened.“You may do as you wish,” she said crisply, “but I can assure you that any move against us is one you’ll regret.”

R smiled for lack of a better response.“You just threatened me.”

“No.”

“Yes,” R said.“You threatened me.Incredible.You know what, to hell with this, I’m not talking to you.”

Argall folded her arms.“It’s not me you’ll be talking to.”R kept her lips pressed tightly shut and resolved not to say another word.

The lift doors opened to a poorly lit, rather damp corridor.Argall swept out before R.R considered staying in the lift and taking it back up, but Argall called, “It’s card-activated, you need me if you want to leave.”At that, R trotted obediently after her.

She followed Argall to a heavy metal door.On the short walk there, R considered what she could and could not do.Odds of Ward still being upstairs were slim, and even if she did find him, what would she say?That she’d been press-ganged into a plan that ultimately seemed to be destroying MI6 and had resulted in several casualties?That a rogue double-0 agent had decided to babysit her for a month for the express purpose of keeping some of the worst arms dealers in the world from sweeping her off to God knew where?That some tart in a pencil skirt had threatened her in a rather vague manner if she didn’t comply?R had the distinct impression that none of those facts would help her.Not only that, but she doubted she could help 0014 without helping Argall and the rest.She did want to help him, too.For all that she’d told Argall that he was a murderer—and he probably was—he’d been kind, and she liked him.She hoped he was all right, wherever he was.

“This way,” Argall said, stopping at the door.She did something R didn’t bother to watch and the door swung open.

R stood stock still.Argall didn’t intend to talk to her, she intended to lock her up.

“Inside, please, or the alarms will go off,” Argall said, pushing at the space between R’s shoulder blades.R stumbled through the door.As soon as the hand was off of her back, R took a deep, deep breath and lunged at Argall.

The tall woman shrieked and swung her tablet wildly at R’s face.It connected soundly, and R felt pain radiating from her left cheek, right about where 0014 had hit her.Her head felt as if it were oscillating.

“Let me out,” R ordered, trying to will her cheek to stop stinging, even as she readied herself to attack Argall again.0014 had taught her a few basic moves after learning that R had no concept of self-defense.

_“There was an intro course we all had to take when we signed on to Six,” R said mildly.They were sitting in a café near the university.0014 had been a regular attender of her lectures and had accompanied her on a caffeine run._

_“Codswallop,” 0014 said._

_“You’re dating yourself,” R said, her voice singsong.She hadn’t lost her fear of the man, not entirely, but there was only so long she could walk on eggshells waiting for him to kill her in the night._

_0014 grinned.“So are you, knowing what I mean,” he said.R rolled her eyes.“I’m serious about the training.You can’t possibly expect to be a woman and not have to defend yourself from distasteful sorts.”_

_“I defended my thesis,” R said._

_0014 leveled her with a glare.“I’m being serious,” he said._

_“I know,” R said quickly, “I know.But really, I don’t need it.”_

_“You do,” 0014 insisted, “and we’re starting today.”_

And that was that.0014 had taught her how to get out of various grabs and how to catch attackers unawares.Argall hadn’t started off an attacker, but R rather liked that they could skip that step.All she needed to do was steal Argall’s keycard and she could run.

She fumbled slightly with her footwork, and Argall was still swatting at her furiously with that damn tablet, but R thought she might actually manage to drop the taller woman when she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a voice.

Argall retreated to the far corner of the room in the second R faltered.There was a bruise blooming across her jaw—R would have been lying if she said she wasn’t just a teensy bit proud—but there was something else.

“Stop that,” Ponsonby ordered.R stood up a little straighter.“You pull something like that again and I make sure you’re never found.Understood?”

R was mute.

“Good,” Ponsonby said.“Come a little closer.”

R didn’t move.

“Learned a little something from him, didn’t you?” Ponsonby asked.“Should have known that you and Fourteen would be a right match.”

“Why am I here?” R blurted out.

Ponsonby remained silent for a long moment.Beside her, Argall rubbed her cheek and rocked back and forth on her feet.

“0014,” Ponsonby said.

“What do you know about him?” R demanded.

“More than you, I’ll wager,” Ponsonby said, “though I’ll grant that I don’t have so many ears down here as I’d like.”Argall stopped rocking, but R was paying rather little attention to her.“I take it he’s been captured?”

“Men from Section Five came to Cambridge,” R stated shortly.“0014 wanted to make sure I wasn’t implicated with him.”

“Fine job he did of that.”

R pursed her lips.She wanted to defend 0014 from this woman, absurd as it was.At some point, she’d distanced the killer from the person.To think such a thing made her head spin, but those were the facts.

“How much did he tell you,” Ponsonby asked, “about our operation?”

“Other than the fact that you wanted me to come to you weeks ago?” R asked.“Nothing.Anastas wants to hire me or kidnap me, probably simultaneously.I don’t have a job anymore, do I?”

Ponsonby shrugged.R read the answer in the gesture: _not my problem_.

“This is my life,” R said quietly.She had balled her hands into fists.“This is—”

“Not fair?” Ponsonby finished.Her tone was derisory and horrible.“This isn’t fair?Life isn’t fair, Doctor, it’s high time you learned that.I don’t care about your career or your future.One person is of no importance compared to an entire nation.”

“You’re operating in the best interests of England, then,” R said.“Somehow, I doubt the people upstairs agree.”

“The people upstairs,” Ponsonby said, and there was that tone again, “are a bunch of bloody idiots whose heads are so far up their arses that they wouldn’t be able to see the sky fall—and mark my words, it will.”

“So you’re a doom-sayer,” R said.

“I’m going to save this country if it kills me,” Ponsonby declared.

“I hope it does,” R said sourly.“You’re a bitter old woman who can’t see her own senility.What the hell are you playing at?The world’s going to hell and you think you’re saving it.”

“It’s going to hell because I’m down here and Five is calling the shots,” Ponsonby shot back.“It’s going to hell because Mallory is too much of a prick to understand necessary evil.Much like his old friends over at Five, he has no idea how to make sacrifices, how to let certain evils flourish so others can be killed.

“The double-0 section is one example,” Ponsonby continued.“We make contracts with men and women who would find other ways to kill eventually.We set limits and let them do what they already want to do.They’re murderers, or would be if we let them, but we don’t and so instead they are specialists—pretty words, same meaning.I take it that Fourteen never told you about Bahrain.Don’t tell me you forgot you were living with a killer.”

R’s face had flushed.At times, she had in fact forgotten.

“The deal with Anastas was no different,” Ponsonby said, speaking louder and louder.“We had means for control.Rather than accept that, Mallory decided to take aggressive actions that have jeopardized the safety of the entirety of the nation.”

In the ensuing silence, R felt her ears ringing.Ponsonby had been as good as screaming, and the subsequent absence of sound was overwhelming.She had no idea what to say.

Ponsonby broke the silence.She spoke quietly, as if to do so pained her.“But you don’t understand that,” she asked, “do you?”

A silence, worse than the first, settled into place.R did understand, in a twisted way.She understood necessary evil, not because she’d lived with 0014—a contract killer, R forced herself to think, she’d lived with an assassin—but because she’d been a consultant.She’d worked on the Trident Programme, she’d met with M—the old M, not the one Ponsonby mockingly referred to as Mallory.R had been intimately involved in discussions involving weapons that could wipe out humanity at large and had justified it by saying that a deterrent was the best shield.

“It was worth a shot,” Ponsonby said.“Take her out, please.”

Argall stepped forward as R stepped back.

“Hold on a moment,” R said.Argall stopped.“Assuming,” R continued, “I agree with at least some of what you’ve said.Given that, why did you have me brought here?”R was making something of an assumption in that she didn’t believe for two seconds that Ponsonby didn’t have power down here.

Ponsonby didn’t challenge it.“Because they’re going to kill one of my Zeroes,” Ponsonby said shortly, “and I’m in no position to prevent it.” _But you are_ , were the unspoken words.

R didn’t doubt for a moment that Five or Six would have 0014 executed for treason.She thought back to the days where she and the agent sat at a tiny coffee table in a shop chatting about meaningless things.0014 would laugh like a schoolboy and she’d giggle back.They’d kill him.

R asked slowly, “What did you want me to do?”


	38. Bahrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R demands to know what happened in Bahrain. Argall reluctantly remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to mistflyer1102 for helping me with this!

Argall’s tablet had broken.

Though her jaw was sure to bruise, and though she thought that R had probably clipped her in other places besides, the tablet was what she was most worried about.Argall tapped on the touchscreen, as if jostling it more could help it regain functionality.With a sigh, she clutched it to her chest and focused on the scene unfolding before her.

Ponsonby and R, R and Ponsonby.

_You need to think of it this way_ , Ponsonby had said at the very beginning. _You can’t see me as your mother.I am Loelia Ponsonby._ As if Argall had ever thought of it any other way.

Sometimes, Argall wondered if Ponsonby had ever thought of her as her daughter.She’d heard Ponsonby refer to her as an assistant, an aide, and on one glorious occasion, had told Lee that she considered Argall a friend.

More often, Argall wondered why Ponsonby’s own flesh and blood took a backseat to the murderous “children” she lovingly termed her Zeroes.It used to irk her, but she’d gotten to the point that it seemed impossible to have it any other way.It was outside the realm of possibility, which meant it had no place in Argall’s world.

Ponsonby and R, R and Ponsonby.

Ponsonby as well as had R eating out of her hand.

“It’s quite simple,” Ponsonby said, infusing her voice with something akin to astonishment.Argall had to look away to avoid making a face.It was a sham, all a sham.They’d never kill 0014 because Ponsonby would never let them.When they were abroad, she was powerless, but Ponsonby would gladly take the fall before any of her precious Zeroes were convicted here at home.

“The key is Anastas,” Ponsonby said, drawing Argall back into the present.

“Anastas,” R repeated.“The lunatic of an arms dealer who has the world by the balls, who 0014 thought was out to kidnap me.”It wasn’t a question.

“Fourteen more than thought, he knew,” Ponsonby said mildly.“We wouldn’t have diverted such critical resources merely to babysit you.”Argall shut her eyes.

“So, you want me to call him or some such?” R asked, filling the silence.

“No,” Ponsonby said.“A call won’t suffice.I want you to meet him.”

Here was the critical moment.Argall opened her eyes, curious to see R’s face.

R.Her skin was white with shock and perhaps fear.Her pupils were dilated even more than they had been in the near-dark, and she took in an audible, brief gulp of breath.

Argall shut her eyes again.R looked as if she were two seconds away from throwing up or screaming or fainting or all three simultaneously.It was a look Argall had seen before on the dead and the dying and it was one of the many reasons she’d opted for a career in Q Division.

_Disappointed_ , Argall had overheard Ponsonby say regarding that decision. _I’m quite disappointed._

Argall shook her head to clear away the ghost of Ponsonby.The current, flesh-and-blood Ponsonby was enough of a challenge with which to cope.

“Pardon me, I think I need you to repeat that,” R said.

“Moneypenny and Argall have conferred,” Ponsonby said, and Argall couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow because she hadn’t the faintest idea what the other woman—her mother, amazing how often she had to remind herself—was going to say next, “and agree: a face-to-face meeting is what’s required.I would do it myself, but as you can see,” Ponsonby lifted her weak, chained limbs, “I am bound.”

R’s mouth moved without producing sound.

“They will see you to him,” Ponsonby said.“It must be you.He will not trust or even deign to see anyone else.”

“You want me,” R said, pointing at her chest, “me to meet Anastas.”

“You will renegotiate the original agreement between MI6 and himself,” Ponsonby said.“In doing so, you will make provisions for the obliteration of all records and obligations pertaining to the double-0 section.As per the terms, MI6 will be forced to free 0014 under the eyes of Anastas and his circle.”

R didn’t blink for a long, long time.

“You want me,” she said, the repetition belying her intelligence, “to meet Anastas.”

Ponsonby allowed R to consider the matter further.

“You’re mad,” R said finally.She took a step backward.“You’re—you—”

“You will not be leaving this cell until we have come to an agreement,” Ponsonby said.She looked to Argall for the first time.Argall fought the instinctive urge to look at the floor.“This one won’t let you out otherwise.”

_This one._ Argall bristled under the condescension.

“You’ve got a card to get out of here, right?” R asked.“You have to see that this is insanity.Let’s both walk away from this.”

Ponsonby’s arm shot out and grabbed Argall’s wrist.She hadn’t even realized that she’d relaxed her arms away from her chest.The tablet clattered to the floor.If it had had any vestiges of functionality before, it was certainly dead now.

“Dr. Schirmer,” Ponsonby said, using her most forceful tone, “you are going to come back here and we are going to discuss this matter like adults.Either that, or dear Fourteen loses his head in a few days time.”

The threat was laughable for reasons Argall had already analyzed, but it did the trick.R was no longer moving toward the door.

“I need someone to do this,” Ponsonby said, softer this time, “someone capable who understands the gravity of the situation.Those men from Five would kill Fourteen now if they could, and Mallory’s too busy with his pissing contest with a dead woman to get his head in the game.You, though.”Ponsonby shook her head.She almost looked fond—almost, because Argall knew for a fact that Ponsonby never looked fond without cause.

“You have potential,” Ponsonby finished finally.“I saw it in Q Division and I see it now, even as you consider running away.You wouldn’t let a good man die.You wouldn’t put some foolish notions about right and wrong ahead of the well-being of millions.You will save lives, Doctor.Isn’t that the noblest of goals?”

Hook, line, sinker.

Except—

“What happened in Bahrain?”

“Does it matter?” Ponsonby asked—carefully, Argall thought.

“It might.”

“Why?”There was genuine bafflement in Ponsonby’s voice.Once again, R probably couldn’t tell the difference between this and Ponsonby’s usual tone, but Argall could.She stood up a little straighter and forced herself to really look at R.

“You mentioned Bahrain earlier,” R said.She stared directly at Ponsonby.Argall could have been a fly on the wall.“When you mocked me for forgetting that 0014 is effectually a contract killer.”

“That’s not all he does,” Ponsonby said.

“That’s not the point,” R cut in.“The point is that he has killed, and will kill again.I want to know what happened in Bahrain.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”Ponsonby sounded a touch put-out.

R smiled slightly in the flickering, dim light of the cell.“I don’t have to,” she said.“You need me to do something—more than that, you need me to cooperate.So I ask: what happened in Bahrain?”

For all that Ponsonby seemed to like to disparage Argall’s abilities, she considered herself quite skillful in certain instances.Times when quick-thinking was required qualified.

If Ponsonby refused to cater to R’s demands, she risked alienating the consultant and jeopardizing the entirety of her plan, insane as it seemed.Ponsonby wouldn’t let 0014 die and so she would take the fall for him.Without her, any hope for reestablishing order between MI5, MI6, and the criminal known as Anastas would be decimated if not entirely obliterated.

The possibility that Ponsonby would risk it, though—counting on R’s sense of right and wrong and her apparent fondness for 0014—troubled Argall.Ponsonby didn’t want to talk about Bahrain.

Argall didn’t really, either, but she was growing to like R more with every passing second in spite of her broken tablet.She felt she could do this, just once.

“Bahrain was horrible,” Argall said.

“Afanen.” Ponsonby’s voice was a warning and sharper than any knife.Argall swallowed.

“Bahrain was horrible,” Argall repeated.“0014 and I were sent in to investigate the Arab Spring insurrection with an operative from the DGSE.”

“DGSE?” R interjected.

“ _Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure_ ,” Argall clarified.“French equivalent of MI6.They had started a manhunt for someone who had defected from their ranks and stolen classified intelligence, fellow by the name of Laurentin Adam.They believed that he had gotten involved with a woman, Annika Slater, who was busy orchestrating political insurrection in Bahrain.According to DGSE intelligence, she was acquiring and selling weapons to both the government and rebels to turn over a tidy profit.The DSGE requested a joint operation between our two services, and we agreed.A French officer was put in charge of actual operations, and 0014 and I were to monitor the situation and assist as needed.

“Wait a second,” R said.“Annika Slater—”

“—was responsible for Q’s kidnapping, yes,” Argall said.“She survived Bahrain.Do allow me to continue.The DGSE requested the joint operation with the knowledge that we’d been watching Slater for some time.She had many affiliations with arms dealers and criminals, mostly mid-level.Given the information that’s come to light about the old M’s agreement with Anastas, I don’t believe Slater and Anastas were affiliated, though it’s difficult to know.What is clear is that he was not involved in the Bahrain operation.”

“You still haven’t told me what that was,” R said.

Argall ignored her interruption.“Bahrain started all right, but most things do,” she said.“I was a quartermaster of sorts for the French officer, and 0014 kicked back in a hotel room and took it easy.That, of course, didn’t last.

“Someone ratted us out.We thought it was Adam at the time—that he’d recognized the French officer and had notified Slater—though we now understand that a mole working within Q Division supplied the information instead, a janitor by the name of Maurice Tidings.In fact, we have no definitive proof that Adam was involved at all.That’s what makes it horrible.”She smiled tightly.“0014, at the very least, was notified of Tidings’ movements shortly before he contacted.Q Division is, once more, secure.”

Argall waited for a moment, expecting another interruption from R.Instead, she was met with silence.

Clearing her throat, Argall continued, “About a week into the operation in Bahrain, Tidings leaked the details—our routes, our faces, the whole package.Slater unleashed a veritable army to send us home in body bags.”Argall paused and took a deep breath.“The French officer was killed,” she said.“We were ambushed.He was covering for me.”After a beat, she continued, “0014 took over from there.It was a bloodbath.Slater’s men used hostages.MI6 got me out, but 0014 was left behind to clean up the mess of the wreckage.”She swallowed.“Ultimately, 007 had to be deployed as well.0014 was too spent, and they had him cornered.”

There was a long silence.Argall looked resolutely at R and nowhere else, though she could feel Ponsonby’s eyes drilling holes into her.

“How many?”

R’s tiny question nearly disappeared in the hum of the lights in the cell.

“How many what?” Argall asked.

“Civilian casualties,” R answered.Her voice was unsteady.

Argall smiled tightly.“I wish I could offer you a number.”

“Did he—did 0014—try to save them?”

Argall allowed her silence to answer the question.

R swallowed.She opened her mouth to speak.

A phone rang.

Argall arched an eyebrow.The sound was coming from the tablet that she’d dropped.Slowly, she bent to pick it up.The screen wasn’t illuminated, but she tapped it a few times where the on-screen notification usually was and the call picked up.

“Argall,” came Moneypenny’s tinny, glitchy voice.“Tell me you have R down there.”

“I do,” Argall said, “I’m looking right at her.”

“Can she hear this?” Moneypenny asked.

“I can hear you,” R called.

“The MI5 men that picked you up confiscated your phone,” Moneypenny said.“Not long after I got it back, you got a call.One of your students.She won’t tell me what’s wrong, but it sounds bad.”

“Is this really so important that you have to interrupt?” Ponsonby said suddenly.Argall started.She’d almost forgotten the other woman— _her mother_ —was present.

“If our facial recognition on the Algiers footage is accurate, yes,” Moneypenny said. _Algiers?_ Argall frowned to herself.What could one of R’s students have to do with the mercenaries in Algiers? She certainly wouldn’t be affiliated with 006, 007, or Q… “Bring her up,” Moneypenny ordered.


	39. Recourse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory has a mean right hook.

Tanner sat across from Mallory on the ride away from 10 Downing Street.He’d come to meet Mallory and potentially aid in discussions with the Prime Minister, but he’d only managed to arrive in time to see him leave.

Now, Mallory stared blankly out the window, watching London float slowly past.When he’d been at university—quite some time ago now, his mind helpfully supplied him, as if he needed any more reminders that he was getting old—he’d felt like this before.He’d felt it again at the hands of the IRA.It was symptomatic of the confluence of exhaustion, hunger, and depression.He felt as if he were entirely outside of his own body.

“Sir?”

Tanner’s voice was so horribly soft.Mallory didn’t want to respond to it.He forced himself to take another breath in, another breath out.

“Sir?”

It wasn’t Tanner’s fault, but Mallory felt a surge of anger against him.Couldn’t he just let it be?It was over, couldn’t he see that?

Tanner opened his mouth to speak once more.Mallory clenched a fist and raised it, only to lower it again when he saw Tanner visibly flinch.

“Mr. Mallory will do now,” he said finally.

“Sir,” Tanner said.“You can’t accept this.”

“I argued every available option,” Mallory said.“I went for every angle.I’m finished.”Tanner shook his head.Mallory went back to looking out the window.

“This isn’t over,” Tanner said.“Sweeping you under the rug isn’t going to stop Anastas from tearing us to pieces when he catches sight of the news.You think he knows we didn’t take Trevelyan?We’re dead in the water—”

“Do you think me so incompetent?” Mallory snapped.Tanner opened his mouth and shut it with an audible click.“Do you think I don’t understand the ramifications of what’s happened?He’s—”

Mallory didn’t want to finish his thought.The shred of pride he still clutched close to his chest ached at the admission, but he was positively terrified when he considered what Anastas could do with a full arsenal, nuclear and otherwise, and the belief that MI6 had attacked both of his children.It would be a godsend if England remained on the map.

And with Rufus Sadler, the bloody moron, in charge of everything, Mallory sincerely doubted that they had so much as a snowball’s chance in hell.

“What’s our plan?”

Mallory squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his fist against the window.

“There is no we,” Mallory said, “and there is no plan.”

“Of course not, officially speaking,” Tanner said, curse his stubborn streak.“No reason why a couple of colleagues can’t put their heads together.You’ve been demoted—” Mallory shot Tanner a look, “—but you haven’t been entirely silenced.And, if a few employees decide that going off on their own is the best idea…”

Mallory opened his eyes.

“You’re advocating treason,” he said blandly.The word was acrid in his mouth.

“I’m advocating reason,” Tanner said.“The official plan is madness, and Sadler’s going to get us killed.We can’t save our jobs, but we can stop the ship from sinking.Isn’t that what matters?”

Mallory looked at Tanner.“If you’re talking out of your arse—”

“No,” Tanner said.“What do you think of this?”

* * *

When Tanner was finished, Mallory wanted to say no.  He wanted to throw up his hands because they were well and truly fucked, and this mad plan only proved so much.

And yet.

Tanner had given Mallory his badge so that he’d be able to access the building.Mallory was reasonably sure that all of his permissions had been revoked, at least for the time being, and they didn’t want to risk it.

The plan was simple: while Tanner went to head off Sadler, Mallory was to go to Q Division, do whatever it took to convince them to find Moneypenny, and explain to her what needed to happen: Bond and Q needed to go to Anastas.Bond would have to look like an envoy from MI6, and Q would have to vouch for him.Once Anastas saw his youngest son and realized that he’d been played like a harp, the pressure would be off of England in terms of mortal peril and Mallory could, if only indirectly, assist Anastas in the retrieval of Trevelyan, wherever he’d managed to end up.That in turn could lead to negotiations between the organizations, and perhaps even Mallory’s reinstatement.It was tidy—too tidy, in Mallory’s eyes.There were too many difficulties and moving parts.

Of course, they couldn’t begin to try without Moneypenny, who so obviously knew more than she let on.

For all that he was wrapped up in his thoughts, though, Mallory was nothing if not a perceptive man.When he swiped into Q Division using Tanner’s card, he was immediately aware that all was not as it should be.

The first indication, of course, was that Moneypenny, Argall, and the new Q were standing between the consultant R and the rather irate duo of Rufus Sadler and Megan Langley.

“Stand aside,” Sadler snarled.

“Not until you calm down, sir,” Moneypenny said.

“It’s one of her students—” Q was saying.

“I don’t care if it’s the Queen, put down that mobile,” Sadler yelled.Langley’s eyes flickered to Mallory, and Sadler soon spotted him as well.“How the hell did you get down here?”

“I work here,” Mallory said mildly.“Really, I ought to be asking you.”

“That woman—” Sadler gestured wildly at R, nearly whacking Langley in the face as he did so.She folded her arms and stood back as if what was unfolding before her didn’t concern her in the slightest.

“Consultant R?” Mallory asked.

“She no longer consults for our organization,” Langley said.

“‘Our’?” Mallory asked.His false bravado had turned into real boldness at some point; he understood distantly that he had absolutely nothing left to lose.“I didn’t realize the two Services had been merged.”

“Be silent,” Sadler snarled.“You’re not in charge here anymore.”

“No, I’m not,” Mallory said.He stepped closer and watched as Sadler reoriented himself, angled halfway between Moneypenny and Mallory.“But then again, neither are you.”

“Really now,” Langley interjected, “there’s no one else.”

“Of course there is,” Mallory said.“Ms. Moneypenny’s been promoted.”He tilted his head toward Moneypenny.“Good to see you, M.”

From across the room, Mallory heard someone say, “Bloody hell.”

“Like hell, more like,” Sadler said.“On whose authority?”

“The Prime Minister’s,” Mallory said.

Sadler laughed.“That’s funny,” he said, “because I have it on very good authority that the PM’s put me in charge of our _singular_ organization.It’s over, Mallory.No more smoke and mirrors.Let’s put all of this in the open.”

“Have it your way, then,” Mallory said.He’d been moving closer, centimeter by centimeter, and now he was just close enough—

Sadler didn’t see the swing coming.Three good hits were all it took to knock him to the floor.He wasn’t knocked out or even that badly hurt, but he was down.Langley tried to put up a fight, but Mallory knocked her down and brushed away her sidearm when she made an obvious grab for it.

When he stood up, one of the younger quartermasters was doing a slow-clap and Moneypenny had buried her face in her hands.

“Please tell me you have a better plan than whatever just happened,” she said.

“Afraid not,” Mallory said.His blood was singing with the brief fight, and he felt a younger man by decades.“We don’t have much time.What was this all about?”

R pushed past Moneypenny and the rest to stand in front of him.“One of my students—her sister was killed in Algiers,” she said.“She called because she got scared.Her brother is the one who’s voice is overlaid on the tapes, who’s claiming to have orchestrated the attack.”

“The woman she’s referring to is the one that we see with Trevelyan,” Moneypenny cut in.“He went berserk after she went down.”

“My student says that she received a letter to the effect that her sister was seeing someone dangerous,” R said.

Mallory remembered and looked to Moneypenny, who nodded uneasily.This was the intelligence that they’d acted on in the first place.Someone else had found them first.

“Sadler thought she was relaying information to terrorists,” Q—the new Q—said.Mallory had all but forgotten that he was here.“I tried to explain the situation—we only just received confirmation by facial recognition as to who the woman was—but he wouldn’t have anything of it.”He looked contemplatively at Sadler’s prone and groaning form.“You have a mean right hook, sir, but I rather doubt that was a good idea.”

Mallory preened nevertheless.“Well,” he said.“Practice and all that.Moneypenny, we have very little time.We need Bond and Q, and we need them now.”

“What for?” Moneypenny asked.The new Q looked confused for a moment before he realized that he wasn’t the one being referred to.

Mallory explained the plan as quickly as he could.He waited for the rejection and claims of insanity.

Instead, he heard, “That could work.”

Moneypenny was nodding at Argall, who in turn was watching R intently.

“I’m missing something,” Mallory said around the moment Tanner burst into Q Division.

“Bloody hell,” Tanner cursed, looking between the incapacitated Sadler and Mallory.

“Ponsonby wanted to send R to Anastas.He’s expressed interest in a woman of her talents,” Argall said.“R has agreed on the grounds that if we reestablish a connection between MI6 and Anastas, we can track down the people who killed Ines—the woman in Algiers—and the ones who took Trevelyan.We’ll be saving lives.”

“You want to hand over a nuclear physicist?” Mallory asked.

“I’m not going to stay,” R said.“I’m going as a show of goodwill.I’ll negotiate the deal and come back.”

Mallory looked to Moneypenny, who looked at the floor.

“Right,” Mallory said.His voice was tighter than he meant it to be.Sending off the unsuspecting to certain doom had never sat well with him.“Who were you planning to go with?”

“I was to quartermaster,” Argall said, “with Moneypenny running point.”

“If I team up with Bond, Q and Argall can work together from up close and afar,” Moneypenny said before Mallory could say anything.Moneypenny wanted to go back into the field?He was beginning to think that he’d slipped into a different universe.“It improves our chances of arriving alive, and if we have a direct connection to MI6, our credibility is just that much better.”

“So we send Bond, Q, R, and Moneypenny in with Argall running backend,” Mallory said.

“Plus one,” Moneypenny said.“We ought to bring 0014.”

“Why?” Mallory asked.

“He’s in custody downstairs,” she said.“If we leave him after the stunt you’ve just pulled with Sadler, he will be executed sooner rather than later and I doubt they’ll let Ponsonby take the fall.If he dies here and Ponsonby learns of it, we’ve still got chaos.”

“If one of her Zeroes goes and we’re responsible, Ponsonby will make sure MI6 goes down in flames,” Mallory murmured.Moneypenny nodded vigorously.Beside her, Argall shifted her weight and looked away.

“Get them out,” Mallory ordered, gesturing at Sadler and Langley.“Tanner, bring up 0014.Take R with you.Moneypenny, do we have a way to contact 007?”

“Working on it.We may be able to contact them through the student—you said her name was Fidda?” Moneypenny asked R.R nodded as she walked slowly to Tanner’s side.Mallory absently handed over Tanner’s badge.“Beyond that, they’ll be hard to contact.They can’t have gotten far from Algiers, but it is Bond and Q.They’re good.”

“And angry,” Mallory said.He looked to the new Q.“Will you help us?” he asked.

The new Q looked to the quartermasters.“If we don’t make this work,” he said softly, “everything goes to shit, doesn’t it?”

“Something like that, yes,” Mallory said.

The new Q shrugged.“So be it.007 and Q arrived in England not long ago.We have reason to believe that they’re headed for Cambridge as we speak.”

“They’re _here_?” Mallory demanded.

“When were you going to tell us?” Moneypenny asked.

The new Q straightened, as did several of the quartermasters.“We thought it prudent to keep the information to ourselves, until now.Given what we’ve just learned, it’s entirely possible that they’re going for your student.”

Mallory turned to R, who nodded weakly.“Fidda,” she murmured.

“Come on,” Argall said to Moneypenny.“Time to plan our attack.”Tanner similarly approached R, murmuring platitudes and reminding her of 0014.Soon, they disappeared to retrieve him.With Tanner’s access, it wouldn’t be hard.

Perhaps it would work.Mallory allowed himself a moment of hope before he helped relocate a groaning Sadler and an irate Langley.


	40. Shock

It was almost without discussion that Bond and Q packed their things to find a girl in Cambridge.They drove to Tangier without incident in relative silence.Some things were better left unsaid.

In Tangier, Bond didn’t stop at a hotel, not that Q had expected him to.Q didn’t comment until they were nearly at the docks.It was a slightly faster timetable than Q had been expecting, but he took no issue.

“Do you have a plan?” Q asked.His voice was rough from disuse, and he cleared his throat to freshen it up.

Bond nodded as he parked the car between two enormous crates.“We need a boat,” he said,

Q frowned.“That’s a statement, not a plan.”

With a huff, Bond smiled. “It’s as much as we need.Wait here.”

“James—” Q started, but Bond was already out of the car and moving.“Bloody hell.”Q pulled his recently-acquired laptop out of the bag at his feet.To his chagrin, it didn’t want to work nearly as quickly as he needed it to.

Not so far away, Q heard shouts, then gunshots.He ducked as best as he could, awkwardly unbuckling his seatbelt in the process.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled again, trying to make himself as small as possible.He briefly considered getting out of the car—he had a vision of himself grabbing something, either a conveniently-misplaced gun or a crowbar of some sort, and saving Bond’s arse as usual but in a less-than-usual way.

Q opted to clutch his knees closer to his chest as he tried to drown out the sound of gunfire.Going out there would only push his luck—he’d survived Algiers, if only because Bond had physically moved him out of the line of fire more than he cared to admit—and anger Bond.They each wanted, more than anything, to keep the other safe.Getting out of the car would not only jeopardize Q’s already precarious position, but it would likely put Bond in a compromising situation as well.

That didn’t prevent him from rifling through the contents of the car as he could reach them to find a gun—one of the ones they’d stolen, but it would do in case anyone other than Bond came knocking.He oriented himself so that he could see out both windows simultaneously and cocked the weapon.

A few agonizing minutes later, Bond approached.He looked between Q and the gun and smiled.

“That much confidence in me?” he teased.

Q shook his head.“And here I thought you’d be happy.”

Bond tossed a set of keys into the air and caught them again as he opened the passenger side door.“I’ve acquired a boat.”

Q climbed out, stretching his legs.“I’ll bet you have,” he said.

“It’s a nice boat.”

“ _James_.”

Bond smiled so brilliantly Q thought his heart might drop.

* * *

It was, in fact, a nice boat.  Rather larger than Q had expected, he could rest in the shade and had internet access.  Q liked it mostly, though, because it had Bond steering at the front, which gave Q liberty to ogle his arse to his heart’s desire while he worked on setting up temporary identities.

Bond angled them toward the Spanish coast.Behind them, a plume of smoke rose from the area around the docks.Bond had decided that the best way to dispose of the evidence, namely the car, was to burn it.Q had watched the fire take hold with something akin to satisfaction.

“We’ll need a plane,” Bond said.

“Commercial or private?” Q asked.He smiled a little to himself.Bond tossed him a smile over his shoulder.

“Never stolen a commercial plane before.We’d make the news.”

Q could imagine it—Spanish media outlets would be all over the two foreigners with enough gall to steal a commercial plane.It would be hysterical—but too attention-grabbing.They were running enough risks already.They didn’t need to take any more.

Still, Q’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as he considered the possibilities.They needed something easy.Of course, the easiest was stealing a car and crashing through borders, but that would take nearly a full day, plus time spent evading police custody.No, a plane would have to do.It needed to be small, preferably something that wouldn’t go noticed right away…

“Lost in thought?”

Q’s head snapped back up.Bond was still facing straight ahead, but his question had been deliberate.

“Yes,” Q said simply.“Just logistics.Nothing interesting.”

“Would you tell me?”

Q took a breath, hesitated.Bond sounded timid.Perhaps he’d been reading their silences wrong, not that he’d put too much thought into them in the first place.

“Of course,” Q said, “though I don’t know why.You haven’t told me what you’re thinking, either.”

He didn’t mean to come off snappish, but he realized after he spoke that he certainly had.He made to apologize, but Bond beat him to the chase.

“I’ve been thinking about when this is over,” Bond said.With the wind, Bond’s voice carried, and to Q, it sounded as if Bond were right there next to him.“What we’ll do.”

“When we have Alec back?” Q asked tentatively.

Bond hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

The unspoken _if he’s alive_ could be heard from Gibraltar to Algiers.

“I’ll take us all off the grid,” Q said, filling in the gaps in the conversation.“New identities, a new place.No one will find us.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I’m good,” Q said, “and you know it.”

Bond laughed from his belly.“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“We’ll disappear,” Q said, watching his lover.“That is, unless you think there’s any going back.”

“There’s no going back,” Bond said.“There were MI6 men there.They weren’t among the initial ones, but—” Bond cut himself off.“There’s no going back,” he said again.

“No,” Q echoed.“I guess not.”

“I was wondering,” Bond started, then stopped.“I didn’t know if you had a similar vision,” he said.Q tilted his head, considering.He was quite sure that what Bond said wasn’t what he intended to say.“I was hoping you’d say something like that.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Q said.It wasn’t a question.Bond visibly stilled.“You don’t have to tell me,” Q said quickly, “but if it’s something you’re worried about—”

“No,” Bond said, all too fast.“No, not worried, just— I didn’t know if you’d…”

Q bit his lip, then asked, “If I’d what?”

“If you’d want to stay,” Bond said, “with me, that is.” Q wished he could see his face.

“James,” Q started.

“That’s all,” Bond said.His tone was just a little off, he spoke just a little too fast, and Q knew that this wasn’t the whole story, but he wasn’t about to press, not now.

“All right,” Q said.Trying to instill his voice with absolute confidence, he said, “You’re not getting rid of me, if that’s what you thought.”

Bond made a noise that sounded something like a strangled laugh.“That wasn’t quite the worry.”

Q had a fairly good idea that he knew the worry, yet he said, “Whatever it was, then, forget it.I’m not going anywhere without you.I’m afraid it’s you who’ll never get away from me.”

“Just the way I like it, then,” Bond said.It wasn’t quite true, but Q felt happiness well within him all the same.

“I’m glad,” Q said.“Now, do we want a two seater, or something a little fancier?There are loads of private craft in Gibraltar at the moment, so we’ve got quite the selection.”

* * *

Getting from Spain to England proved almost laughably easy.  Q felt as though he were hardly working at all.  He said as much to Bond.  Instead of laughing and agreeing, he just frowned.

“Q,” he started.Q felt something horrible creeping up his spine.Bond shrugged.“It’s the shock,” Bond said.

“What?”

“You’re in shock,” Bond said again.They’d touched down on English soil minutes ago, they should be on the run—and yet, here was Bond, stopping.

“I’m not in shock,” Q said.

Bond smiled slightly.“You don’t want to be, but you are,” he said. “It would be impossible— You’ve been through a lot.”

Q folded his arms and wished he didn’t look so childish doing it.

“You’re doing what you normally do,” Bond said, gesturing uselessly.“But you don’t feel like you’re actually doing it, do you?You feel like it’s just happening, that it’s somehow separate from you.”Q frowned.The description was apt. “You’ve made it all external.It’s a method of protection.”

“I’m not in shock.”Q found his tone petulant and looked away in embarrassment.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Bond said.“It just means that we need to get this cleared up sooner rather than later.Do you have an address for Fidda?”

“I do,” Q said, latching eagerly onto the new topic of conversation.“We’ll need a car.”

“After what we’ve been through?” Bond asked, a smile forming on his face for the first time in what seemed to be very, very long minutes.“I doubt that will be difficult.”

* * *

Bond drove.  Q slept—he’d been sleeping a lot, lately.  Perhaps Bond was right and he was in shock—but that meant that he wouldn’t be thinking clearly.  At least, he guessed so much.  He couldn’t quite remember all of the symptoms of shock.

When he woke, the landscape whizzing past the windows looked more and more familiar.

“Sleep well?” Bond teased.Q realized that Bond hadn’t slept in—when had he last slept?

“I should try to drive, shouldn’t I?” Q asked.

“I’m fine, love.”

“But—”

Bond leveled him with a look.Q sighed.“I slept well, thank you.”

“How very formal.”

Q didn’t know what to say.

“We’re close now,” Bond said.Filling in the gaps—he was always the one to do that, wasn’t he?Or was that new, too?

“How long?” Q asked.He tried to pretend like his voice didn’t feel like it was coming from outside of his body.

“Half hour.”

Q made a noise.“Maybe you’re right,” Q said.He looked at his hands.He wasn’t shaking, but they didn’t look quite right.Nothing looked quite right.He didn’t remember how they’d looked before, but it was different, it was—

Bond shifted gears, then brought one hand over to cover Q’s own.

“It’s all right,” Bond said.“It’s all right.”

“It’s not, is it?” Q asked.It wasn’t a question, not really.

“That depends,” Bond said.“Is us being together all right?”

“Of course.”The answer came as naturally as breathing.Just as good, it was true.Those two things came together so rarely even under the best of circumstances.

“Then it’s all right.You and I are here together.”

It was an oversimplification if Q had ever heard one, and he couldn’t remember when Bond started dishing out platitudes, but he was willing to take it.

“All right,” Q repeated.He took a hold of Bond’s hand, and Bond squeezed.

* * *

Getting into Cambridge proved harder than either of them had anticipated.

“Are we expected?” Q asked, looking at the array of cars surrounding part of the campus.

“Perhaps,” Bond said, his expression rapidly darkening.“Looks like MI5.Wait here.”Q snagged Bond’s sleeve.“What?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Q said.He could see Bond calculating the risks.“I’ll just follow you if you tell me to stay.”

“Q—”

“I can’t sit here,” Q continued.“We both need to move.”

“We need a plan, then.”

Q eyed Bond.“What was yours going to be?” Bond shifted.“Oh.Guns blazing, no regard for personal safety.Yes, we need a different plan.”Q reached for the laptop at his feet.“Let me know if anyone catches sight of us.”

Q heard Bond huff a laugh.“We’re sitting in the open, Q.”

“Yes, but we need to blend.Give us a second.”

Cambridge University’s student security was abysmal and therefore perfect.

“There she is,” Q said.“Mobile?”

“You want to call her?” Bond asked.

“She could be anywhere on this campus, and it’s swarming with MI5 plus some of our own.We go waltzing in and we’ll get caught.If we’re lucky, she’ll come out of her own accord.”

“And if we’re not?” Bond asked.

Q tapped Bond’s guns.“Best to be prepared.”

* * *

Fidda answered on the second ring.  She sounded terrified.

Q wasted no time.“Hello, Fidda,” he said, “my name’s Q.You’re a second year university student at Cambridge.Your sister, Ines, just died on public television.You’re going to leave campus and come to 34 King Street immediately.If you don’t, we’re going to come to you.”

Bond raised his eyebrows as Q hung up.

“What?” Q asked.

“Next time, I make the threats.Come on, let’s hope she comes.”

“Seriously?”

Bond made a face.

“It couldn’t have been that bad.”

Bond smiled a little.

“Bloody hell,” Q muttered.“I don’t know why I talk to you.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to, you made that face.”

“It’s my face, Q, it always looks like that.”

Q glared at Bond.“I think I should know.I look at it more than you do, unless you want to admit to being a narcissistic arse.” Q shoved Bond, who laughed just a little more.“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Of course not, love.”

* * *

All in all, Q thought that Fidda made record time.  She actually ran around the corner and made a beeline for the car.  Q thought she might actually crash into it, but she skidded to a halt right before impact and dove into the backseat.

“Hello,” Q said.“I take it you’re Fidda?”

A muffled curse rose from the backseat.“Good,” Fidda said, sitting up, “I was worried I’d picked the wrong car.Would have been bloody awkward.You’re Q?”

“That’s right,” Q said.“You seem…exuberant.”He glanced at Bond, who looked equally confused.

Fidda took several deep breaths.“You were with my sister,” she said softly.“You were with her, you were on her side, and those murderers.”She said something in Arabic, speaking soft enough that Q couldn’t easily hear.“They’re after you,” she said.“You have to get out.”

“Who’s after us?” Bond asked.

Fidda looked at him for the first time.“You’re James,” she said.Q bristled involuntarily.“Ines told me about you.Are you going to get Alec back?”

“Fidda,” Q said, “who’s after us?”

“MI5, MI6,” Fidda said. _MI5_.Q shot a look at Bond.They were both thinking of Caldwell and Algiers.“Dr. Schirmer told me so.”

“R,” Q breathed.“Dr. Anna Schirmer?”

Fidda nodded furiously.“She’s one of my professors, and she told me MI5 and MI6 are no friends of yours.”

“How did you contact her?” Bond asked.

“I’m a student, I have her mobile number,” Fidda said.Her breathing had only just begun to slow to a normal rate.“I got scared when I saw the news.She’s the only one I’ve spoken much to, plus after the attack on campus, I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

“Attack?” Bond questioned.

Fidda nodded furiously, and her scarf slipped just a little.As she readjusted it, she said, “Some lunatic used Dr. Schirmer as a living shield to try to escape the police.Or, maybe they were MI5.I don’t know.Someone official.They caught him and took her away, too.”

“MI5,” Q said, looking to Bond.The agent looked deep in thought, so Q turned back to Fidda.

“Fidda, your brother—”

Her eyes lit with fury.“I have no brother,” she said.She leaned out the backseat window and spat on the curb after pulling her scarf to one side.“No one but my sister, may she watch over me always.”

“Fidda,” Bond said, his eyes forward, “I need you to call R.”

“R?” Fidda asked.

Q glanced out the windshield.Several MI5 men were looking at the car.Bloody hell.

“Dr. Schirmer.Call her now, please.”

Fidda fumbled with her heavy clothes until she reached her mobile.Q’s eyes bounced between her hands as they flitted across the tiny screen, Bond’s hand as it reached for a gun, and the MI5 officers gathering at the end of the street.

Fidda put the phone to her ear.It only rang once before someone picked up.

“Dr. Schirmer?” she asked.“Dr. Schirmer, I need to talk to you.”

“Shit,” Bond said.He turned the car on.“Give Q the phone, now.”

Bond hit the gas just as Fidda put the mobile forward, sending her lurching backwards.Q just managed to snag it.

“R?” he asked quickly.

“Q?”

Q felt relief bloom across his body.“R, what the hell is going on?”

“We need you to come in,” R said.

“What?”

Q didn’t hear anything for a moment as Bond tore past the unmarked cars, and two shots were fired.Fidda shrieked, but Q didn’t risk a look back at her.

“Q, are you there?”

The new voice startled Q.“Moneypenny?” he asked.Bond grumbled something, then swung the vehicle to the left.

“Q,” Moneypenny said.“Are you there?”

“Yes, what’s going on?”

“Listen, MI6 didn’t orchestrate the Algiers attack.We were sent to catch Trevelyan, but no one was supposed to get hurt.”

“Like hell,” Q snarled, “we recognized your men.”

“Our--”

“Not to mention Caldwell. Did you turn him from Five?”

“Caldwell?” Moneypenny asked.“Isn’t he dead?”

“He was, until you sent him to kill us,” Q shot back.

“We didn’t send anyone to kill you.If there were defectors from Five, we didn’t know about it, just hear me out.We need to make another deal with Anastas.He thinks we took Trevelyan, and we didn’t, I can promise you that.I wouldn’t be on the phone with you if we had.” Bond swerved around a pedestrian, and Q slammed into the passenger side door.Moneypenny was still talking: “Anastas will gun down anyone who comes his way, but if you and Bond go, you’ll be safe.You and Bond, plus R, 0014 and I, would make up the party.”

“Why you three?” Q asked.

“Because Anastas needs a nuclear consultant, I’m her protection, and 0014 will be killed if he stays here.”

Q squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“You’re out of your mind,” he said.

“What the hell’s going on,” Bond snarled.“Q, tell me what she’s saying.”

“Q—”

“Moneypenny wants to send you and I, plus her and R and 0014, out to meet Anastas to renegotiate a deal.That way, he doesn’t bomb England off of the map for Alec’s disappearance.”

Bond made a face.“What’s in it for us?”

Q repeated the question to Moneypenny.

“You’re joking,” she said.“Anastas could commit mass murder, and you’re asking about yourselves?”

“You tried to kill us,” Q said, “and right now it looks like MI5’s trying to beat you to the chase.”

“I told you, that wasn’t us!” Moneypenny snapped.

“They’re shooting at us now!” Q yelled.

The phone was passed to someone else.

“Q, for God’s sake, you have to believe me.”

“M?”

Bond snatched the phone from Q’s ear.

“Mallory,” he said.“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’ll tear this organization down before you offer Q up as cannon fodder to save your sinking ship.”

Q couldn’t hear what Mallory said.He felt Fidda’s hand curling around his shoulder and leaned back to look at her.Her eyes shone with fear, and her grip was hard.

“Q?” she asked.“Are we going to die?”

“No,” Q said, “no, we’re going to be all right.”

“It’s all right if we are,” Fidda said.Her eyes were fixed on the constantly swerving patch of road before them.Behind them, Q could see several unmarked cars following them.A man leaned out the window of one, and Q pushed Fidda’s head down.

“It’s all right,” Fidda said, “because we’ll see my sister again.”

“We’re not going to die,” Q said.Bond was talking, but he couldn’t hear over the sound of gunfire.“We’re going to get Alec, and we’re going to be fine.”

Fidda squeezed his hand as the rear windshield was blown out.


	41. Succession

Moneypenny had never had strong feelings about breaking the rules, but forcing a mostly-dazed Langley to call off the MI5 men on Bond’s tail was brutally satisfying.

When the call ended—honestly, it didn’t take very long; even considering MI5’s incompetence in the field, Sadler ran a tight ship with regards to personnel and their ability to obey orders—Langley glared at Moneypenny.

“What do you get out of this?” Langley asked.“This is treason.”

“This is self-preservation,” Moneypenny said, pulling the mobile from Langley’s ear.Her hands were bound out of necessity.Sadler had been placed elsewhere so that they could be negotiated with individually.“If we followed your plans, Anastas would blow us off of the map.”

Langley laughed.“You think he can be stopped?” she asked.“You’re joking.”

“Why are you laughing?” Moneypenny asked.

“Because you’re daft, that’s why,” Langley said.“He’s going to take his boys and kill us all anyway.”

Moneypenny leaned against the door.They’d moved Langley to her old office, though she hardly deserved the space after the mess she’d made.“Explain,” Moneypenny said.

“He hates us,” Langley spat.“He hates everything we stand for.He’s a terrorist, Miss Moneypenny.”Langley managed to make Moneypenny’s name sound worse than “terrorist”.“Do you honestly think that you can drop his children at his doorstep without repercussion?He’ll see that as an opportunity to take out an old enemy—all of us.”

Moneypenny pursed her lips.The thought had crossed her mind.If Anastas saw that his children, no longer in need of the same kind of protection that they had required as infants, were in the clear, what was to stop him from taking out some, if not all, of England’s key resources?

“It’s not in his best interest,” Moneypenny said slowly.“He’s an arms dealer, not an anarchist.Knocking down the British government does nothing for him.”

“It starts a war,” Langley said firmly.“It starts a war, and who profits from that?He does, and you know it, you’re just not willing to admit that you’re playing straight into his hands.”

Moneypenny looked Langley straight in the eyes as she said, “But what about you?”Langley tilted her head.“We’ve reviewed the footage from Algiers.Jonathan Caldwell is, in fact, alive.”

Langley’s face coloured.“I know nothing about that.”

“Don’t you?” Moneypenny asked.“Maybe I ought to ask Sadler, then.”

“He wouldn’t do that.You might not like Five, but that’s not… They don’t have moles.”

Moneypenny smiled tightly. “You have some interesting ideas about Section Five,” she said, “but it seems as if they’re wrong.You latched onto Sadler because you thought he was going to do it this time, didn’t you?You thought he was going to merge the sections, and you latched onto his coattails for a ride up the ladder.”Langley glared at Moneypenny, then turned her eyes to the floor.“Now, a man who was once quite high--above Sadler, in fact--in Section Five shows up as part of a mercenary force working for an unknown entity after being declared dead?This looks very bad, Ms. Langley.”Moneypenny worked to infuse her voice with as much derision as Langley had earlier.Judging by her expression, it seemed to be working.

“In light of these events, are you going to help us or not?”

Langley looked up and smiled.Her teeth might have been knives and it would have looked more welcoming.

* * *

“Did Langley try to convince you to call off the plan?” Mallory asked when Moneypenny returned to Q Division. 

“Where are Bond and Q?”

“On their way,” Mallory said.He looked at her pointedly.

“Yes,” Moneypenny said finally, “she did.She’s also agreed not to notify MI5 of our movements for the time being pending an investigation into their ranks, so long as we keep her in the loop.Sadler’s made a similar deal.I’m having them brought down now, once they’ve been swept.”Moneypenny sighed.“I wish I knew who Caldwell answered to now.Q Division’s combing the footage, looking for other familiar faces, but so far there’s nothing.Fighting an entirely unknown enemy…”

“It’s our only recourse.”

Moneypenny looked to the quartermasters.The new Q was on the phone with Q—the thought gave Moneypenny a headache—and the monitors were full of the scene in Cambridge.

“Covering this up isn’t going to be possible,” Moneypenny said.“We’re going to go down hard.”

Mallory made a face.“Not necessarily.”

“You honestly think you can salvage this.”

“No,” Mallory said seriously.“I think you can.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mallory smiled tightly.“In case of an emergency, you were—”Moneypenny figured out where Mallory was going ahead of time and shook her head.

“I was hoping you were joking when you brought it up earlier,” she said firmly.“No.”

“It’s the logical conclusion,” he said.“If this works, it’s your first big success.You’d be credited for cleaning up Five and Six.They’d give you every accolade under the sun--privately, of course, but still.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Moneypenny asked, unable to keep the snide tone out of her voice.“Sadler and Langley alone will sink me.”

Mallory tilted his head.“Sadler and Langley want to latch onto the nearest success, and if word gets out that they made a deal with us, they’re over, too.Even if that doesn’t do it, news of Caldwell will.He was too important.”Moneypenny risked a glance at Mallory.She remembered, briefly that he and Caldwell had been associates back when Mallory was in Five.“If our plan doesn’t work, assuming we’re not all dead, you claim no involvement.Say you fought me on it and I brained you the same as Sadler and Langley.You’re still the only one left with any credentials that they can put in charge.You can rebuild this wreck.”

“It’s your job,” Moneypenny said.“Not mine.”

“I go into the field in your place,” Mallory said.“I’m not your superior anymore.The Prime Minister fired me.After this, I have nothing.”

Moneypenny sighed deeply.“You’re trying to get yourself killed,” she said.“You took this position and everything went to shit, and rather than keep going you want to go out in a blaze of glory?”

“I can’t sit behind that desk anymore,” Mallory said sharply.“I can send men off to die, but I can’t take the politics and the bickering.”

“And I can?”

Mallory turned to face her.“You do it better than most.You brought in Ponsonby.”

“Ponsonby wanted to be here,” Moneypenny said honestly.“She knew that Sadler was onto 0014, or else suspected that you would come calling for her precious Zeroes eventually.If push came to shove, she planned to take his place on the chopping block.”

“And each and every double-0 knows that Ponsonby trusted you, at least to some extent,” Mallory persisted.“Who do you think they’ll turn to when this is all over?People like them don’t just go into the woodwork, Eve.They’ll gather around Ponsonby, and if not her, there isn’t anyone else left.It’s just you.”

Moneypenny shut her eyes.One of the quartermasters alerted the room that Bond and Q had just pulled into the garages.

“There’s someone else with them,” the quartermaster said, confused.“A woman.I think it’s the student.”

“Fidda,” Moneypenny said reflexively.“Let them all in.”

“Moneypenny,” Mallory pressed.

“I’ll think about it.”

“We don’t have time to think about it,” Mallory insisted.“They’re here, which means we need to move.We can’t afford to waste any time contacting Anastas for a meeting.Every second we waste is a second he spends gathering an arsenal to take us off the map.”

Moneypenny balled her hands into fists.


	42. Betrayal

Anastas had chosen a location within Moscow itself to meet.The selection didn’t surprise Kohut—Anastas, when left to his own devices, generally liked to select venues where there were more people rather than less—but he thought it a risky move.It gave Anastas the ability to plant people wherever he wanted them, but it also gave slime like Bureš the same opportunity.

Kohut shivered as he crossed a street and entered the designated building.A doorman showed him inside.It was a hotel, and a rather nice one at that.Anastas never skimped on the good stuff, that was for sure.He’d probably bought it out, too.It used to bother Kohut when he was younger; he’d thought it wasteful and foolish.Of course, that was when he still thought that Stalin had all of the answers.They’d come a long way from those days.

He breezed past the concierge and headed to the third storey conference room that Anastas had chosen.Kohut walked fast.He’d had a hard time getting to Moscow after discovering that his plane had a leak in the fuel line, and though the men he’d sent ahead had told him that neither Adam nor Bureš had yet arrived, Kohut wanted to end this now.He needed to meet with Ziqiang to set up their attack, then get the meeting over with.With some luck, Kohut thought, they’d be rid of Bureš within the hour.

Anastas had set up a tight ring of security, and Kohut was patted down as soon as the conference room doors were in sight.They were closed, and a scrawny excuse for a human being stood before them.

“I’m sorry,” the little man said, “but no one is to be allowed in just yet.”

Kohut stared at the man as if he had grown a second head.It would have been more believable, at any rate.

“Open the doors,” Kohut said.

“Sir has a private meeting now,” the little man said.“He asked not to be disturbed.”

“Ziqiang,” Kohut said.“Ziqiang’s in there, isn’t she.”The little man shuffled a bit.Kohut had guessed right.He felt anger flare up inside him.What was she doing?They had agreed to move together—the way they had before the circle had formed, when it had just been the three of them, he, Ziqiang, and Anastas.Those had been good times, before business got complicated.That was before Anastas’ wife had died.

Kohut stood back a few paces, glaring at the doors.Whatever was happening, it didn’t bode well for him.He didn’t want to be out here, waiting like some peasant, when Adam and Bureš arrived.Kohut hated waiting.

He snatched up the little man and snarled, “You let me in to see him, or I snap you in two.”The man’s eyes were wide as he clawed at Kohut’s fingers.Kohut squeezed, applying just enough pressure around his neck, and the man could do no more than gasp and splutter.

“And here I thought cruelty was Ziqiang’s specialty, not yours.”

Kohut released the assistant and spun just in time to see Bureš and Adam arrive.Adam came closer, and Bureš lingered by the man who’d patted him down.At his feet, the man coughed and struggled to stand.

“Bureš,” Kohut said sourly, “and Adam.Pleasure.”Adam smiled thinly.Bureš grinned like a maniac.Kohut wondered why in seven hells he hadn’t been informed of the arrival of two of his supposed allies.

“Ah, so you do have some human in you,” Bureš said.“Always wondered if you were flesh or machine.”

“Don’t try your luck,” Kohut shot back.

“Perhaps it’s you who shouldn’t try yours,” Adam said smoothly.The effect might have been more impressive had he not spoken to his shoes.“I assume he won’t be pleased when he sees this.”Adam gestured vaguely at the assistant, who had only just stood again.

“I want to get this council over with,” Kohut said, curling his lip.Adam still wouldn’t look him in the face.“Some of us have actual work to do.”

“Oh, come now,” Bureš said.“No need for hostilities.We’re all allies here, no?”Bureš had thrown his hands up by his shoulders as he spoke, and Kohut had a vision of slicing them both off, one by one.Ziqiang would be pleased; that’s how Kohut knew his thoughts were venturing too far into monstrous territory.

All at once, the doors opened, revealing Anastas.At the far end of the room at a short conference table sat Ziqiang.Her husband stood behind her, his face ashen.Kohut would have killed several presidents across the continents to know what had been spoken behind these closed doors.

“Come, please,” Anastas said, gesturing broadly.“It is time.”

* * *

Kohut was seated to Anastas’ right.  Adam, the worm, sat on Kohut’s right.  Across from Kohut sat Ziqiang at Anastas’ left, and beside her was Bureš.  All assistants stood off to the side, pouring drinks and eavesdropping.  It was no secret that such a meeting could define the future of their business.  Anastas’ aide rubbed at his own rapidly bruising neck and glared at Kohut.  Kohut merely took a sip of his drink and smiled.  That aide wouldn’t last long, not like the girl Anastas had had before.

As the meeting began, Anastas spoke slowly.Kohut, who’d known him for longer than most, recognized that he was doing his best to keep his anger pent up.Kohut straightened and braced himself.

“As many of you know, my children,” he said, after a lengthy introduction that Kohut mostly tuned out, “have been attacked.In Algiers, my eldest son was taken.My youngest has escaped.”

The room was perfectly silent.Kohut risked a glance at his associates.Ziqiang sat still, the picture of serenity.The smile he saw on her face wasn’t just in his imagination, nor was the feral glint in her eyes.He didn’t know what to make of either without knowing what had been said behind closed doors.Beside her, Bureš fidgeted.Red splotches covered his face, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.Adam, on the other hand, was very still.Like Ziqiang, he was the picture of serenity—or he would have been, had he not been gripping his hands hard enough that they were absolutely white under the table.

“It would appear,” Anastas said finally, “that the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, of the United Kingdom, has determined that my children represent a threat to their way of life.If this is the case, I will rescind all agreements and obligations pertinent to my previous agreement.”Beside Kohut, Adam’s hands relaxed.Kohut forced himself to look up at Anastas, who surveyed the table critically.

“But,” Anastas said, rather loudly, and here it was.

“But,” he repeated, “I do not believe that the SIS acted alone.”

Kohut drew in a deep breath.He looked at Ziqiang, but she was as she had been, smiling slightly and utterly at peace.Was she daft?This was the moment to attack, to show him what they knew!

“It was always my hope,” Anastas continued, “to build a unified circle.That we, as leaders and innovators, might restructure this world for the better.That we, with all of our powers and strengths, might realize a vision of a world made free from the turmoils of the masses.It was always my dream,” he said, his voice booming in the small room, “that we could forge a better life for our children and our children’s children, that they might live in peace and prosperity.And so, I gathered each of you to me—that we might realize this dream together.”

Kohut felt himself sweating.He was no longer sure where this was going.

“But,” Anastas said, “it appears that I have blundered.”

_What._

“I have asked you to elucidate each of your operations,” Anastas continued, “without revealing my own hand.I kept secrets, and for that, you have my sincerest apologies.”

Kohut blinked slowly.The smile was finally gone from Ziqiang’s face.She looked at him now, and Kohut couldn’t read her expression any more than he could earlier.All he understood was that something had gone off the rails—whatever secret conversation Ziqiang and Anastas had had, it didn’t seem to be bearing the fruits she had anticipated.

“It has come to my attention,” Anastas said, “that some of you have been displeased with my actions on several levels.For that, too, I offer my apologies, that I have not explained myself as I require you to, that I have not acted in the spirit of cooperation, considering your interests as well as my own.

“That being said,” Anastas spoke, “though I owe you each a great deal, it has come to my attention that one of you has wronged me far more than I have wronged them.This person amongst you shall pay most dearly for their crimes.”

“What,” Bureš said, “is the accusation?”All eyes turned toward him, and he swallowed at the attention.For one brief moment, Kohut rather admired Bureš, though he pitied him by the same token: no one interrupted Anastas.

“I have been led to believe,” Anastas said, softer now, “that the SIS was responsible for stealing my eldest son.I was falsely informed: one of you is responsible for the deed.”

If Kohut were a betting man, he’d have put all his money on the room erupting in indignant retorts.Adam and Bureš would have pulled out every trick that they knew to say, _no, it wasn’t us, maybe you should look elsewhere._

Kohut would have lost all of his money right then and there because the room was perfectly silent.Bureš was sweating profusely and Adam had gone back to wringing his hands, but neither so much as breathed.Kohut would have laughed if he hadn’t feared that it would somehow draw Anastas’ wrath.

Anastas spread his hands wide.“Tell me,” he said, his voice so horribly soft, “what it is you have not told me.”

It was at that moment that Bureš stood.Kohut had enough time to curse his lack of foresight— _of course_ —before Bureš had pulled a gun out of his breast pocket, aimed, and took fire.


	43. Surveillance

“Shots fired.”

Q spoke the words before the implications set in.It was always that way—Q had trained himself to report upon the reality of the situation without internalizing it—but in this case, what it meant—

“Almost there,” Bond grunted through Q’s earpiece.Q’s laptop told him that he was on the first storey.Gunfire came from Bond’s earpiece, and Bond hummed a tune as he returned fire.Beside Q, R squeezed her own hands tightly, wringing them almost painfully.Q could hear her breathing so steadily she had to be counting, but he couldn’t afford to pay attention to those minutiae, not when Bond was out there, getting ready to walk into what promised to be a deathtrap.

They were set up in a hotel in Moscow, about a block from where Anastas had decided to hold his conference.When he and Q had last spoken, Anastas had insisted that they stay there.He would post guards so that Bond and the rest could come to the conference if necessary.If all went well, he and Q would be close enough to meet almost immediately afterward.And, of course, if the council didn’t go well…

They had the building rigged with alarms that would notify Q if anyone other than security tried to get in.However, with Anastas’ guards, he rather suspected it wouldn’t be a problem.Like it or not, the arms dealer was his father, and he wanted Q to escape this mess unharmed.He’d left his best, and Q trusted them almost as much as he trusted Bond.

“Coming around the other side, first storey,” 0014 said.There was more gunfire from his end of things, but it stopped soon.“Not much security back here.Not much anything.”

“It’s a hotel,” Q said.“They can’t have many guards, but be careful.Anastas suspects all but Ziqiang.We need them all alive.”

“Easier said than done,” 0014 grunted back.

“Copy,” was Bond’s answer.It brought a smile to Q’s face.

“M, what’s your status?” Q asked.His feed had been quiet for some time.

“It’s bloody cold,” Mallory groused finally.

“Is that all?” Q asked sharply.He had better things to worry about—namely the nonstop gunfire from the speakers of Q’s laptop—than his ex-superior.Q watched several dots scurry around his computer with rapt attention.He’d outfitted Bond, 0014, and M each with heat sensors.He could pick up what was happening around them, but the building had absolutely no camera security.They were flying effectively blind.

“Fifth storey, in pursuit,” Mallory said.“Someone’s already been through.There are lots of dead men.”

“Anastas’?” Q asked sharply.

“Unknown.None of them wear bloody uniforms.”

Q wet his lips.“The council was set to meet on the third storey.They can’t all be gone already.The only ways out are the roof and the street.Security should be tight when you get closer.Can you head to the roof?”

“On my way,” M said.Softer than Q’s mic could easily pick up, he muttered something else.

Q didn’t have time to worry about it; gunfire erupted from Bond’s feed again.Q could see the audio lines go crazy on his laptop screen.Behind him, R took a deep breath.There was absolutely no blood left in her fingers from squeezing them so hard.

“They’re going to make it,” Q said, distracted.

“What’s that?” R asked, pointing at a point on his screen.Q rubbed at it before realizing it wasn’t a speck of dust.

“M, there’s something coming your way and all I’ve got are what your heat sensors are picking up.Watch your eleven.It’s—” At that moment, an alarm sitting beside R began blinking.“Shit,” Q said.“Shit.Someone’s here.”

Bond’s dot froze.

“Stay on point, Bond,” Q snapped.Softer, he said, “Shit.”

Beside him, R began to shake.

“It’s going to be all right,” Q said to her.“They won’t be able to get in here.”R was staring at the door.“Dr. Schirmer.”

“There’s someone outside,” R whispered.

Q’s attention was torn between the consultant and the screen.Bond and 0014 were making headway, while M still hadn’t come in contact with the odd heat source his sensor was picking up.Didn’t he see it?

“Anastas’ men,” Q said, holding his feed.“They’re supposed to be out there.”

“There’s someone else,” R said.She stood up.

Q exhaled, his pulse high.He couldn’t afford a distraction like this.This was a _disaster_ , and—

There was a soft _click_ from the hallway, and the doorknob turned.


	44. Storm

Q was muffling his end of the comm line; Bond tried not to read into that and channeled all of his frustration and fear into the gun in his hands and the sparse forces he’d found as he climbed the building.He heard gunfire from Walker’s end and next to nothing from M.This operation had taken absolutely no time at all to go tits-up and Bond would have been fine had Q not been so close to the action.

“I’m on the third storey,” Bond reported, unsure if anyone was listening.

“Any sign of the ringleaders?”

Bond had the grace not to hesitate.“R, where is Q and why do you have his line?”

“He’s busy,” R said, stumbling over the simple words. “There are heat signatures nearby, but they don’t seem to be moving.Q says to move carefully.”

“Where is Q?” Bond asked, infusing his voice with a little more force.The conference room doors stood before him.Not thirty minutes ago, Anastas had been in here, conferring with Fu Ziqiang about what was to come.

“Busy,” R said. “We had—intruders— They took down Anastas’ men—”

“Is this a hostage situation?” Walker’s voice came from over the line.

“No,” R said, “we’re fine.There’s someone here, but she’s badly hurt.Q’s trying to help her.”

“Who?” Walker asked.

“I don’t know.She’s Asian—oh, Q says her name is Lee?She’s really badly hurt.”

Bond took his anger out on the doors in front of him and crashed into the conference room.Nothing in the corners, on the ceiling, no one standing…Bond lowered his gun and checked around the table.

“Casualties,” Bond said.There was an old man, probably Chinese, who’d bled out.He was one of the many aides that lined the periphery of the room.Other than them… “Bureš is dead,” he said, coming across the man sprawled across the floor.“Shot.No gun nearby.”

“The others?” R asked, a waver in her voice audible even over the comm line.

“Ziqiang isn’t here,” Bond reported, “neither is Adam. We’ve got—bloody hell.” He stopped talking and dropped down beside two men.

“He’s dead,” rasped one of them, “I’m not.”

“Kohut’s alive,” Bond said.He made to lift him, but Kohut just groaned in response.

“Bureš came prepared,” Kohut said.His chest rattled when he breathed in and out.“Anastas’ men checked for weapons.Don’t know how the bastards got them in here.”He coughed and blood spilled from his mouth.

Bond set Kohut back down and checked the last body—Anastas.

“I told you,” Kohut said, staring at the ceiling, “he’s dead.”

Bond checked for himself.“Walker, get down here. Anastas and Kohut are both alive.”

“Isn’t he dead?” Kohut asked.

Gunfire erupted—Walker had found someone else on his way up.“Easier said than done,” he said.“Still got a few skulls to split back here.”

Bond sighed.“M, where are you?”M didn’t answer.“R, can you see M?”

“He hasn’t moved in a few minutes,” R admitted.“He hasn’t answered when I try to talk to him.”

Bond cursed and looked between Anastas and Kohut.He couldn’t carry them both.

“If you say he’s alive, take him,” Kohut said.This drew Bond’s attention.“Adam will come back to finish the job.He and Bureš were in this together.”He let out a harsh, grating laugh.“Ziqiang and I were both right.”

“Walker,” Bond said, “when you get here, grab Kohut.I’ve got Anastas.R, tell me that’s Yin Lee you have there.”

Silence, then, “Q says so, yes.Is she an agent like you?”

“Not exactly.I’m headed over with Anastas.”

“Q says to take him to the roof.Argall’s deploying a medevac?”

“You hear that, Walker?”

Bond looked up in time to see the agent walk through the conference room doors.

“Loud and clear, Bond,” he huffed.“This Kohut?” He picked up the man as if he were nothing.Kohut let out a blood-curdling yell.“Quiet down, you’re alive.”

Bond led the way out.The fourth storey had next to no one on it, but the fifth, where M’s signature had stalled, was a different story altogether.Bodies were strewn across the floor at intervals.

“No blood,” Walker said, hoisting Kohut higher.Bond shifted his grip on the unresponsive Anastas.

“Gas,” Bond said.

“You’re near where M is stopped,” R said.He should be just a few meters around the next corner.”

Bond frowned.Up the stairs and around the corner, they were in a straight hall.

“I don’t see him,” Bond said.His eyes scanned the hall, but M’s body wasn’t there.He moved slowly forward.They needed to move faster, get to the roof, but something had happened—

“There,” Bond said.He inclined his head at the floor.“Sensor was knocked off.There was a fight.”Something else caught Bond’s eye.“He put a tracker in himself.”

“What?”

“He dropped the injector,” Bond said.He snagged it off of the floor.“He must have been grabbed.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Walker said.“He’s bleeding out fast.Are you sure that thing on your back has a pulse?”

Anastas was heavy as Bond rolled him around to check again.It was there, faint but persistent.“It’ll take more than gunfire to kill this one,” Bond said.“Let’s move.”

“The evacuation team’s up there,” R said.“Hurry.”

“On our way, love,” Walker said.


	45. Counterintelligence

Argall was going to have an aneurysm in Moneypenny’s new office, surrounded by her colleagues.It would be embarrassing and horrible and she hated every last second of it.

“Do me a favor and don’t die,” Argall muttered.In her ear, she heard a sharp intake of breath as Q finished a line of stitches.

“You do know I’m not Longwood, right?” she heard Q ask.“Just in case you had any ideas about my medical proficiencies.”

“Noted,” Lee grunted.“Thanks.”

“Any time,” Q said.

“Better?” Argall asked over the line.

“Infinitely.Bastards had knives,” Lee said.

Argall sighed and leaned back.“This is insanity,” she said.Beside her, Moneypenny shook her head.

“We didn’t have another option,” Moneypenny said.Across the desk, Dvorak frowned behind his cigar and Misra sat stoney-eyed, unmoving.Between them, Sadler and Langley looked supremely uncomfortable, possibly because they were wedged between the duo most likely to kill and get away with it.

“Anyone want to fill me in on what the bloody hell is going on?” Q asked, speaking directly into Lee’s line.“You were supposed to wait and do nothing.”

“If we’d done that, you and R would be dead,” Argall said.“We couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“You planted an agent without telling me, and I’m the bloody Quartermaster.”

“You’re not the Quartermaster anymore,” Moneypenny said, snagging the feed from Argall, “you’re a consultant at best, a rogue operative at worst.You know that.”

Q was silent on the other end.Argall eased the comm line away from Moneypenny.Since the team had left with Mallory in tow, Moneypenny had been quite tense.She’d explained why only a few hours ago after gathering the current occupants of her office: she was now the acting head of MI6.

“You’re joking,” Dvorak had said after Moneypenny had finished.

Moneypenny had laughed mirthlessly.“I wish.”

“Q,” Argall said, “there was always the chance that this conference was going to go pear shaped, and in the event that it did, all of your agents were going to be there and not with you.That was a risk none of us were willing to take.”

There was rather a lot of shuffling, then Lee came back on the line.

“He’s mad, but he’s talking to Bond,” Lee said simply.“What’s next?”

“Kohut and Anastas are being taken to rendezvous on the edge of the city.We’ve got several doctors on the helicopter that’s going to pick them up.”

“And us?”

“You’re going to take Q and R there to meet up.We’ll talk again when you get there.”

Lee muttered something before her line was dropped.Argall could hear snippets of conversation, but Lee was deliberately not speaking into it.

“This is going well,” Argall mumbled.Misra made a miserable noise and nodded.

“It’s the best we can do,” Moneypenny reasoned.

“Is it?” Misra asked.Dvorak put up a hand to stop him, but Misra ignored it.“We weren’t counting on Anastas being hurt.”

“We weren’t counting on a lot of things,” Moneypenny said.Argall wondered if she knew how weak a defense it was.Based on the looks being exchanged around the table, everyone else had noticed, at the very least.“We make the trade.”

“What about M—er, Mallory?” Argall asked.“He put a tracker in himself.”

Moneypenny’s mouth was a grim line.“If it’s practical that we retrieve him, we do.If not…”

Argall shook her head.“With all due respect, we have to retrieve him.Q said that it looked like Adam had taken him, right?What with the gas?It had to be the scientist.”

“Your point?”

“Bureš shot Anastas because he was getting ready to blame someone for what happened in Algiers, which means Bureš was likely the guilty party.Kohut, he told Bond that Bureš and Adam were in league together.So if Adam’s out there, he probably knows where Mallory and 006 are.”

Moneypenny sighed.“That’s rather a lot of ‘if’s.”

“Afanen,” Dvorak said, “the odds are long that 006 is still alive.Even if he were, he’s killed too many of ours.”

“They’re going to go anyway,” Langley said.

Argall turned to look at Langley.She and Sadler, sandwiched between Misra and Dvorak, sulked like disciplined schoolchildren.True to their word, they hadn’t informed MI5 of any of their dealings except to say that they were in the process of tracking down rogue agents and would be at Vauxhall for the foreseeable future.

“Excuse me?” Moneypenny asked.

“Your agents, Bond and Q,” Langley said, “they’re going to go anyway.Q’s smart and Bond’s a lovesick puppy.Isn’t that right?They’re not going to listen to either of you.”Langley gestured between Moneypenny and Dvorak.

Moneypenny bristled, and Argall wished she were anywhere but here.

“Which is why we should press on,” Argall suggested.“If 006 is alive, it’s in our interests to have him in our debt.It gets Ponsonby back on our side to boot.If MI6 is there with Bond and Q on retrieval, we have a prayer.”

“You really think he’s alive?” Sadler asked.“These are monsters, Ms. Argall.”

“Call me ‘Ms.’ one more time,” Argall muttered.

Moneypenny sighed.“Enough, all of you.Lee, are you there?”

Static, then, “Loud and clear.”

“What happened?”

“At Q’s hotel?”Argall rolled her eyes.Lee was being deliberately obtuse.“Ziqiang’s men attacked.”

Argall’s attention snapped to Moneypenny.

“I thought Ziqiang was the only one we weren’t worried about,” Sadler said.

“She was.Lee, explain, please,” Argall said.

“She knew I was coming,” Lee said.Argall glanced at Dvorak as he made a sound.He looked to Misra, who had turned pale.“She’ll send others.I’m going to drop Q and R and lead them on a merry chase.”

“We need Ziqiang alive,” Moneypenny said.

Lee made a noise. “When people try to kill me, I don’t hold back.”

“Try,” Moneypenny ordered.

Lee didn’t answer right away.

“We’re here,” she said eventually, in lieu of answer.Moneypenny frowned.Across the desk, Sadler and Langley exchanged knowing looks but said nothing.

“If either of you has a better idea,” Argall said, but the two of them shook their heads.

“Kohut’s stable, Anastas is critical,” Lee said, cutting Argall off.“Q and R are accounted for, as are Seven and Fourteen.Mallory’s missing.Q’s tracking him now.”

“Put him on,” Argall ordered.

Static filled the line as it was shuffled, then, “I don’t actually like to multitask.”

“Noted,” Argall said.“Lee gave us a status report; I’d like to confirm her findings.”

“Ziqiang’s men tried to storm the hotel,” Q said.“They cut through Anastas’ men.”

“Fatalities?” Moneypenny asked.

“All of the guards appointed by Anastas were killed.Needless to say, Lee returned the favor.”

Dvorak nodded and puffed his cigar.“That sounds like Ziqiang, all right,” he said.

“Right,” Moneypenny said to Q.“The others?”

“Ziqiang herself is unaccounted for.Kohut claims her husband shielded her from Bureš’ attack, but he went down before he saw what happened to her.Kohut will live.”

“And Anastas?”

Argall heard Q breathe over the line and remembered: Anastas was his father.Argall wondered what that would be like, then realized she likely already knew.An absentee arms dealer and an absentee spy likely weren’t all that different when it came down to it.

“He’s alive, but barely.Bureš used armor-piercing rounds.”

“They make those for handguns?” Sadler questioned.

A pause, then, “I recognize that voice.You have people from MI5 there?”

“They aren’t reporting to anyone at the moment,” Moneypenny said quickly.

“Eve,” Q said, the warning evident in his tone.

Something jostled, then Argall heard Bond say, “I hope you have a damn good explanation for why you brought in Lee.”

“Bond,” Moneypenny said, “good to hear from you.”

“Lee’s known to these circles as a traitor, and you brought her in,” Bond said. “If she’d been seen, she’d have brought the entire operation to its knees.”

“That happened regardless of her presence,” Argall cut in.“Q and R are alive because of her.”

“Ziqiang and Anastas were collaborating right before the attack.She only gave the orders to storm the hotel after the fighting had started.Do you really think she was looking for Q and R?” Bond demanded.Argall had no easy answer, and a glance at Moneypenny told her that they were in the same boat.“Ziqiang knew we had Lee.”

“Be that as it may,” Moneypenny pressed, “we have what we came for.Once Anastas is stabilized, we make the deal—”

“Q’s located Mallory.He’s moving west, and fast, likely on a plane.The only leader left who could have managed it is Adam.”

“Bond—”

“Make up your mind,” Bond said, and that was that.

Argall sighed and sat back in her chair.“Going so well,” she mumbled.

Langley was sitting bolt upright.

“Lyon,” she said.

“What?” Argall asked.

“Oh,” Sadler said, “Lyon.” Langley nodded.

“When we were going through the transcripts for operations from Bahrain and Siberia, we were looking to determine if your old Q had been committing treason,” Langley said. “After one of yours uncovered the mole,” Langley paused to glare at Dvorak, who smiled brightly, “we stopped, but the man you’re talking about now, Adam?Before you tracked him to Bahrain as a French defector, he’d had a lab in Lyon.Or, closer to the French Alps, but in that area.”

“Several nuclear reactors are in that area,” Sadler elaborated.“Like your Dr. Schirmer, Adam is a thermonuclear physicist.He was in charge of several of them.”

“If he’s flying west, that might be where he’s headed.”

Argall’s eyebrows might have touched her hairline, and it took her a moment to find the words to respond.

“You think that this man, apparently a master organizer and member of an elite circle of weapons dealers, fled his own country only to use it as his home base?” she asked.

“It’s the last place anyone would look,” Misra muttered.

Sadler shrugged.“With the kind of money that comes from that kind of work? If he bought the silence of someone important, perhaps.”

“Bond, did you catch any of that?” Moneypenny asked.

“Yes,” Bond said.“Kohut has confirmed that Laurentin Adam’s primary labs are near the French Alps.”In the background, 0014 added a colorful addendum that made Argall’s ears turn red.

“That being said,” Q cut in, “Adam allegedly has labs in several locations, including Russia, China, and Ukraine, those being in addition to France.As part of Anastas’ circle, facilities were set up for the benefit of each member in each lynchpin’s home.”

“Right,” Moneypenny said, “so there are several options other than France, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that Mallory’s tracker is going to help us the most.We get in the air and follow the signal.Where it stops, we stop.”

“You’re suggesting flying in blind,” Moneypenny said.Argall’s attention was again drawn by Sadler and Langley.

“Depending where they end up, we could bring in backup,” Sadler said.

“What, you’ve decided that this is going to work so you’re going to be helpful after all?” Argall asked sourly.

Langley shrugged.“MI5 has contacts with the DGSI.Your contacts with the DGSE might help if he’s going somewhere else, but we can get assistance on the ground if France is where he’s going.”

“Right,” Moneypenny said slowly, looking between the two of them.“Hold that thought.Bond, are you up for this?”

“Yes,” Bond said simply.There was a pause, then, “I’m going to take Lee and Walker.R and Q will remain here and quartermaster from a distance.”Softer, Argall heard, “That’s not an option, Q.No.”Louder: “We’ll retrieve Mallory and Alec, if he’s there and still alive.”

“And you’ll return both,” Langley said.Argall took in a deep breath and braced for the coming argument.

“I’ll return Mallory,” Bond said.“You have no further need for Alec.”

“Just go,” Moneypenny interjected before Langley could respond.“We’ll work out details of transfer after the fact.Let me talk to Q.”

“Your word,” Bond ordered.

“You have it, Bond,” Moneypenny snapped, “now let me speak to Q.”

“Speaking.”

“I need you to talk to Anastas.”

“Anastas is in no place to be speaking to anyone,” Q said.He sounded so tired.

Moneypenny sighed.“If he survives, then reestablishing a deal between us and him is of paramount importance.”

“I’ll talk to him, but now isn’t the time,” Q snapped.“As you’ve so kindly reminded me, I’m no longer the Quartermaster.”

Argall watched Moneypenny sit up a little taller even as a smile worked itself onto her face.“Are you telling me that I can’t give you orders?”

Q’s only response was to drop the line.

“We’ll stay in touch,” Lee said finally, picking it back up.“I’ll let you know when we know what we’re doing.”

“Thanks,” Moneypenny said, sitting back.

Argall sighed and looked at her.“I suppose it could be worse,” she said, adjusting herself in her seat.“Our operatives are alive.”

“Thanks to Ponsonby,” Moneypenny said.“I couldn’t have convinced Lee to come without her.”

Argall bristled and said nothing.Across from her, Dvorak sent a sympathetic look.

“So,” Sadler said, “we wait?”

“We won’t have to wait long,” Moneypenny said, leaning back in M’s—her—chair.“Come hell or high water, this will be over soon.”


	46. Break-In

“I’ve never been to France.”

Q sounded almost wistful, and Bond looked over to him as he fixed his comm line.They were flying low over France now on a plane that Bond and Walker had pinched from their rendezvous point in Moscow.Walker and Lee were at the controls; Lee had the best night vision, and they’d deliberately flown at night to avoid detection.In terms of comm lines, Bond and Q would have one to themselves; R was running Walker at his request, the mad bastard, and Argall was leading Lee. _To each their own_ , Bond thought.In truth, he was glad to have Q’s attention to himself, even if he wished that Q has consented to remain in Moscow.

“We’ll have to visit some time,” Bond said.He didn’t think Q would like Lyon, but perhaps Marseille or Paris would suit him better.“Have you been much out of England?”

“Once,” Q said, “when I was little.My parents took me on a short vacation.Belgium, if I remember correctly.”He grew quiet.Bond came to sit beside him.The plane that they’d commandeered was small, smaller even than the one Bond had stolen to return to England, and every drop of turbulence had Q jolting out of his skin.

“Your drop’s coming up soon,” Walker called from the front.

“Everything’s in order,” Q said, more to himself than anyone else.“Gas mask, gun, parachute, the rest.” He thumbed the edge of his laptop.Cautiously, he moved closer to Bond and leaned his head on his shoulder.“You take care.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Be serious, James.”

Bond smiled and held Q’s head close.

“One minute to the drop.Parachute?”

Bond didn’t bother to answer.Walker knew as well as anyone that Bond was already prepared to go.The warning was more for Q’s sake than anyone else’s.

“I’ll come back with Alec,” Bond promised.“This will be over.”

Q’s fists found the edges of Bond’s tactical gear and latched on tightly.“You come back alive.Alone or not, you come back.”

“I promise.”

The words felt false and hollow in Bond’s mouth, but Q smiled as if they meant the world to him, so Bond forced a smile in return.

“Thirty seconds.”

Bond stood just as Q detached himself, turning his attention to his laptop.

“One last time?” Bond asked.

“Let’s hope,” Q said.“Don’t bother bringing the equipment back in one piece, though.”

Bond laughed even as he moved toward the hatch at the side of the plane.They were flying low enough that opening it would temporarily alter the temperature and pressure in non-life-threatening ways.

“That angry at MI6, are you?” Bond teased.

“You have no idea.Wreak havoc,” Q said with a perfectly straight face.

Bond gave a mock salute and jumped out of the plane.

He allowed the ground to approach him from behind as he watched the plane above him fly Q away.Lee would take over for Walker in a few moments and he’d jump, too.Lee herself would land the plane and stand guard, there in case of an emergency on any end.

Hesitantly, Bond rolled himself over in the air.Q began speaking, listing altitudes.Bond had jumped far enough away from the outskirts of Adam’s labs that, in the dark, he was unlikely to cause a commotion.They were well outside of the commercial, industrial, and suburban areas of Lyon, close to the Alps, and if all went well, Bond would be landing in a field where no one would see.

Of course, with the way things had been going for months now, Bond’s expectations were low.But he’d promised Q he’d come back, and as horrible as that promise had been to make, he’d done it, so he would.He had to.Q wouldn’t forgive a broken promise.

“One thousand metres,” Q said.

Bond allowed himself to fall a little farther before he pulled his chute.The fabric ballooned above him and he felt the pull in his shoulders, just a bit, and then he was slowing, drifting over largely empty space.

Then: “Grounded,” Bond reported.He retracted his chute and looked about, keeping low.He couldn’t see much, but that didn’t mean he was the only thing out there.

“You’re about a kilometer from where Mallory’s signal touched down,” Q said.Hearing him say “Mallory” as opposed to “M” struck Bond as funny.“Your northwest.”

“The lights are off,” Bond said.

Q made a noise.“I see,” he said.“It can’t be that they’re not surveilling the area…”He hummed lightly, and Bond began a slow jog in the general direction of the complex.“It’s likely that they’re monitoring for intruders some other way,” Q said finally.“I find it unlikely that someone with as many connections as Laurentin Adam would just leave their defenses down.Proceed with caution, please.0014 has just landed, and Lee is in the process of bringing the plane down.”

They fell into an easy silence.Bond could hear the rattle of keys as Q typed away, likely attempting to determine the sort of security Adam had.Either that, or trying to get a more accurate read on Mallory’s tracker.

 _Mallory._ Bond had to hand it to him, he was a stubborn bastard.Moneypenny had tried to convince him, before they left for Moscow, not to allow Mallory to do anything—as if Bond had that kind of power or wanted to dictate what the man did.She said he had a death wish, and maybe he did, but he certainly seemed to be doing his best to make sure he came out of this alive.Maybe it was just instinct, Bond thought, but it took a certain kind of person to walk into a building during a firefight armed with an injectable tracker and a handgun.

“Plane’s grounded,” Q said.His voice momentarily cut through the silence.After he spoke, it was so quiet that Bond thought he might have hallucinated Q’s words.It was something he was familiar with: though he and Q used to talk idly while Bond was away on a mission, often they said not a word unless it was absolutely quintessential.Bond didn’t need Q to talk; he needed Q to be there.

“Mallory’s tracker is seeing a lot of interference,” Q said.“I’m assuming it’s deliberate.I’m working on gaining access to cameras now.”A pause, and then, “Oh.”

“Q?”

“Interesting.”

“Q,” Bond said, a little more forcefully, “what am I getting ready to walk into?”

Q coughed lightly.“It’s fascinating, really.It’s designed to tell how many people are within the outer wall at a given moment.The system around the wall appears to monitor motion and heat detection in conjunction, but only internally—that is, you’re undetectable around the outside of the walls, probably so that animals don’t set it off every few minutes…If the system sees any more or less than the programmed number of signatures, the alarms go off.The rest of it looks like keycard access and standard cameras once you get inside the labs, but if you try to just storm in, the building will lock down and you’ll be stuck.”

“Blind spots on the wall?” Bond asked.

“Give us a second,” Q said.He typed for a few moments, and then he said, “Not exactly a blind spot, but… Go about thirty degrees to your left.You see the building?”

“Yes,” Bond reported.He’d seen it looming above him after a short distance.

“There’s a gate up ahead.Looks like…three guards on rotation in the area.You’re going to need to get through there.I’ll override the door; once I do that, you’re going to need to make a mad dash for the entrance.You and 0014 will have to both be in position.”

Bond frowned.Easier said than done.He tried to think of a better way to get inside, one that wouldn’t involve tripping the alarms.If he could take out just one of the guards, he might be able to effectively switch places, tricking the system.But how?An explosion would make them suspicious…

“How do the gates open?”

“Remote switch.I’m assuming one or all of the guards have a switch for their particular gate.There are three gates in total; 0014’s coming in one from the other side.Do you have a plan?”

Bond thought about it for a moment, then approached the gate slowly, his back pressed to the outer wall.The gate was iron, nothing incredibly durable, with an electronic pad on the other side.

Bond picked up a pebble and tossed it through the gate at the pad.He braced himself, but no alarms went off.So there was a size limit to the sensors; it likely would only pick up something large, the size of a person…

The pebble had drawn the attention of one of the guards.Bond flattened himself against the wall once more as the guard approached the panel, running a finger over the display.

“What’s wrong?” called another guard in French.

“Don’t know.Something scratched it,” the one at the panel said.He leaned against the gate, and Bond had his opportunity, but…

“Perimeter check,” one of them said.“You stay there, we’ll skirt the edges.”

“Q, open my gate.”

“But—”

“Please.”

There was a click, and the guard cursed.His back to Bond, it was easy for him to hit him through the gate over the back of the head, hard.He went down, and Bond slipped in through the gate.He tossed the guard outside, stealing his keycard off of his belt as he did so.Once more, he braced himself, but neither lights nor sirens went on.

“Bond, report.”

“Little hard, Q, I’m not sure where the other two are but I’m inside.”

“How?”

“One of the original guards is no longer breathing and his body is outside.”

“Ah.”

“I’m going to head inside.Walker can follow when he arrives.”

Bond moved along the interior of the wall in silence.He was looking for the two on perimeter check, but he couldn’t see anyone.

“Walker’s following your method.Get inside now in case it doesn’t go so smoothly.”

Bond made a break for a glowing pad.Without lights, it was hard to see if it was a door, but up close, Bond was sure this was where he wanted to be.He swiped the keycard and stepped inside.

“Standard cameras?” Bond asked.

“That’s right,” Q said.The closest is just ahead of you at the end of the hall.”

“I see it,” Bond muttered.It was staring him down.

“Don’t worry, I looped the footage.No one can see you.Now, I don’t have a floor plan,” Q said, “but Mallory appears to be on your level.He’s northeast of you from where you’re facing.”

Bond drew his gun and began to advance.


	47. Death

“Anastas,” Kohut said, his breath coming easier now, “what a mess we’re in.”

Anastas, of course, didn’t respond.He was hooked up to countless tubes and monitors, and he lay still on a hospital stretcher.The last time Kohut had seen Anastas’ eyes open had been at the conference.

“You made a mess,” Kohut said, speaking Russian for Anastas’ benefit.“You tried to save your children, and look what’s happened.”Kohut gestured as widely as he could.He, too, was in a hospital bed, but he was breathing for himself, unlike his old ally.

A nurse came by to check Anastas’ vitals, and Kohut cursed at her.

“Stupid woman,” Kohut said, “you are too rough.”

The nurse ignored him, wrote something on her clipboard, and left.Kohut sighed at the ceiling.

“What a mess,” Kohut murmured.“I meant to talk to you before.Ziqiang and I met to discuss the conference, yes.She blamed Bureš; I thought it was Adam.We thought they might be collaborating, but we did not suspect that they would have the wherewithal to attack as they did.Liars and cowards.They probably turned one of yours, the boy who checked us for weapons.I should have checked them myself.”Kohut leaned back against his stretcher and listened to Anastas’ heart monitor.“We had a vision, Ziqiang and I.You would replace Adam with someone else, someone who had a soul, yes?And the four of us, you and I, Ziqiang and the scientist, we would rule.No politics, no meddling, no human experimentation.We would usher in a new age.A better age.”Kohut smiled.“Those are your words, aren’t they?You would think me a fool to hear me speak now, but you always brought out the sentimentalist in me, didn’t you?”

“That was always the problem.”

Kohut sat up so fast his head swam.In the doorway to their makeshift hospital room stood the tiny, hunched figure of Fu Ziqiang.

“Good of you to join us,” Kohut said acerbically.“You look well.”

“And well I am,” Ziqiang said.She approached slowly, walking with a cane as gnarled and twisted as she was.“You, on the other hand, have seen better days.”

Kohut gestured to Anastas.“Look what they have done.You were right; I should have seen Bureš’ guilt.”

Ziqiang looked to Anastas.“Miserable fool,” she said, “would that he would have died there rather than waste away here, a king reduced to a human vegetable.”

“He will wake,” Kohut said, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise, “in time.”

Ziqiang frowned and turned to Kohut.“I thought you were in league with Bureš,” she said.“For that, you have my apologies.”

“You thought…” Kohut trailed off.“No.Bureš was slime.”

“You are right,” Ziqiang said, “but so were you.Now I think differently.”Kohut glared at the woman.“You have my respect.”Ziqiang bowed her head briefly, and Kohut followed suit.

“You have always had my respect,” Kohut replied.“I cannot speak for Anastas, and he cannot speak for himself, but I believe that he, too, has always respected you.”

“And I him,” Ziqiang said.She smiled lightly and came to Anastas’ side.She rested one of her hands against his forehead and sighed.“I could have forgiven his lie, even his treachery.So, it is a shame,” she said, “that it has come to this.”

“Us at the mercy of the British dogs?” Kohut asked.Ziqiang did not speak.“As soon as Anastas wakes, I’m getting him out.Aleksandr is still missing, but Genya brought us here.He will not abandon his father.”

“No,” Ziqiang echoed, an odd glint in her eye, “he won’t.”She withdrew her hand from Anastas’ face and murmured something Kohut couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” Kohut demanded.Something about Ziqiang seemed utterly off.Every time they had met, she had exuded an air of confidence.Kohut thought comically of the old sensei figure from cartoons he’d seen, a vaguely Asian man of unshakeable temperament and unending wisdom.He’d learned, of course, that Ziqiang herself was nothing like that clichéd figure, but for all that he knew it, he periodically forgot it.It was the danger of someone like Ziqiang: old and gnarled, with a kind smile and a thinly disguised raging temper.

Now, she seemed too kind, too careful.

 _Overcompensating_ , Kohut realized at the back of his mind.Fu Ziqiang was furious.

“You are wondering,” Ziqiang said, giving voice to his thoughts, “why I am here.”

“Not exactly,” Kohut said, straightening up, though it pained him to do so.

Ziqiang exhaled and approached Kohut.“He is dead,” Ziqiang said.

Kohut tilted his head and looked at Anastas.His heart monitor still beeped, and his chest still rose and fell.A machine breathed for him, but he was yet alive.

“Not him,” Ziqiang said, waving a hand, and Kohut realized.He’d seen the body as one of the British agents took him from the wreckage of the conference room.Kohut’s face paled.He knew what this was about, now.

Ziqiang’s hand was on his.Her grip was like iron.

Anastas had blundered unforgivably, and Ziqiang’s husband was dead.She wasn’t here to pay respects.She wanted vengeance.


	48. Quartermaster

Within the safety of the parked plane, R pumped the air with her fists as 0014 reported that he’d gotten through the gate.She didn’t quite let out a sob of relief, but it was a near thing.

“Thanks,” 0014 said.

“Thank Q,” R said, grinning.“He and Bond came up with that one.”

“You’re the one walking me through it, love, and it worked like a dream.”R’s grin widened.

“There should be a keycard on the guy’s belt,” R said excitedly.“It’ll let you into the main complex.”

“Copy that.”

R looked up and immediately met Lee’s eyes.R momentarily panicked and looked away.Disapproval radiated off of Lee like heat from a fire, and R didn’t like it, not one bit.

Q had brought an extra laptop for R.Their screen was shared so that R could see everything that Q did, down to the camera maneuvering and Mallory’s tracker signal.R felt a little like she was in a spy movie, and while the cloying feeling of being entirely over her head was present, she felt almost giddy.She had Q, two double-0 agents, and one of the most dangerous women R had ever had the misfortune of meeting all there with her, plus everyone at MI6 and MI5 who were seeing the mission through from a distance.

R had the feeling that nothing could go wrong.

“Right,” 0014 said, “I’m inside.”

“There are cameras at intervals,” R said, eyeing the screen.“Q has looped the footage so you can slip by undetected.Mallory’s tracker is giving a signal that’s northwest of where you’re facing.”

R looked up from the screen in time to see Lee move to the hatch of the plane.The older woman peered out into the darkness and frowned.

“We’ve got company,” Lee said.She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of one of the chairs, rolling her neck and shoulders.R felt her blood freeze, and she looked to Q.Q, for his part, made a face and looked back to his computer.

“Lee’s mobilizing,” Q said.“Someone’s headed toward the plane.Keep moving.”

R echoed the message for 0014.

“Are you all right?” 0014 asked.

“I feel like I should be asking you,” R said.

“Lee will make sure you get out fine,” 0014 said.R could almost hear him taking measured steps through the compound.“She’s good.”

Lee dropped her earwig and stepped out of the plane.This time, when R turned to Q, he looked genuinely concerned.R got up to pick up the earwig once she was certain that she wouldn’t lose her connection with 0014.

“Lee, stop,” Argall shouted through the line.

“She left the plane,” R said, “and her line.”

“Don’t worry,” 0014 said just as Argall said, “Bloody hell.”

Q made a motion with his fingers, and R handed over Lee’s discarded comm line.She shivered as she said to 0014, “I think Lee just went off-book.”

“Were you in theatre?” 0014 asked.

“No, but— She left her comm line.”

“Ah,” 0014 said.“I suppose it’s Ziqiang out there, then.”

R had heard the name enough times in the past few hours to know who he was talking about.“One of Anastas’ circle?In person?How do you know?”

0014 made a noise.“Fu Ziqiang,” he said, “is the other one of Anastas’ associates we didn’t find.She and Lee have a history.If Ziqiang found out that Lee was here with us, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’d come calling.”

“Are they working together?” R asked.“Ziqiang and Adam?”

“Not a chance.Ziqiang was the only one Anastas was sure hadn’t gone behind his back,” 0014 said.

“Shit,” Q cursed.R’s head whipped around to see Q holding Lee’s discarded line to his free ear.She swallowed.Whatever Q was hearing, it didn’t sound good.“So that’s what set her off.”To R, he said, “There was an attack in Moscow where we left Anastas and Kohut.Kohut’s missing, Anastas is dead.Argall says it looks like Ziqiang’s work.”

R blinked once, then twice.“Oh,” she said. _Oh_.“Wait, why?But if Ziqiang’s out there…”

“Doctor, what’s happening?” 0014 asked.

“Just… I’m sorry, it’s—”

“Relax,” 0014 said, “I haven’t encountered any security, so I can talk you through whatever it is.What’s going on?”

“Anastas is dead and Kohut’s missing in Moscow,” R said.“Apparently it looks like Ziqiang attacked, and now she’s here.”

R heard 0014 take in a sharp breath.“Right,” he said, “well, I stand by my initial assessment: you’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Lee has a personal stake against Ziqiang.Whatever she’s there for, Lee will make sure she doesn’t go through with it.”

A single gunshot rang through the night, and R sat bolt upright and stiff as a board.

“Fourteen,” R began, but 0014 cut her off.

“Shit,” he said, “I found Mallory.”


	49. Balance

_“There’s been an attack in Moscow.”_

Lee threaded silently through the night.  Her eyes scanned the fields for what she knew she’d find, what would be waiting for her.

_“Kohut’s missing.  Anastas is dead.  Looks like the work of Ziqiang.”_

Lee had heard Moneypenny in the background saying no, not to tell her, but Dvorak had pressed on.

_“There’s been an attack stateside, too.”_

Lee quickened her pace.  If Ziqiang was out there, she’d be waiting.  She’d want to talk, and while Ziqiang talked, Lee would kill her once and for all.

The land was flat enough that moving wasn’t hard or strenuous, but it was hilly enough that Lee had her ears open more so than her eyes.  The terrain, coupled with the darkness, meant that she was at a disadvantage, so she strained her ears to hear the whispers of agents or the crunch of grass under a boot.

What she heard was something quite different: a muffled, sniffling sound.  In another life, Lee might have mistaken it for a rabbit of some sort, but she’d heard it often enough to know it for what it was.

They had her boy, and they would pay dearly if they had put so much as a scratch on his perfect little head.

Lee slowed to a stop.  There was no way she had the element of surprise, so stealth wasn’t her friend.

“Show yourself,” Lee ordered the darkness.  She spoke Mandarin.  “Face me.”

A shuffling noise from her right drew her attention.

“Good evening,” Ziqiang greeted, stepping forward.  She leaned heavily on her cane, the same one, Lee noted, she’d had so many years ago.  Ziqiang had been taller then, but her spine had curled in on itself around the same time her hair had finally picked up streaks of grey.  Ziqiang had been beautiful once; Lee scoffed to remember how she’d admired her for that beauty, coupled as it was with the ferocity underneath.  She’d aimed to emulate.  Now, seeing the results, she was as grateful as ever that she’d turned to a different path.

“Good evening,” Lee greeted.  “It has been too long.”

“For the first time in many years, we agree,” Ziqiang said.  She nodded sagely and smiled.  Through the dark, Lee could see that smile: benevolent and all-knowing, much like the Buddha.  She would have been fooled had she not known that Ziqiang only smiled to mask hatred.

“Anastasius told me,” Ziqiang said, enunciating carefully, “that you could not be found.  That you had fled, leaving behind no traces.”  She waved a hand through the air as if mapping a constellation.  “He lied to me.  The whole time, he knew.”

“Is that why you had him killed?” Lee asked.  She knew it was impertinent; she didn’t care.

Ziqiang paused and lowered her arm.  “No,” she said.  “I had him killed because he owed me a death.  Now, we are even and balance has been restored.”  Ziqiang’s smile eased somewhat.  “But you and I, we have been out of balance for decades.  It is time, at long last, for us to come to terms.”

“And what might your terms be?” Lee demanded.  She had a gun at her hip and several knives hidden, but until she knew just how many Ziqiang had brought with her, she didn’t dare draw them.

“Peace,” Ziqiang said.  Lee repressed a wince to hear that word from Ziqiang’s lips.  Ziqiang knew nothing of peace.  “You did me a wrong.  You stole something of mine.”

“I stole myself,” Lee retorted.

Lee’s grip on her cane hardened.  “You were, without a doubt, my finest,” Ziqiang said.  “So hard, so angry.  I raised you right, and you turned your back on me.  My wounds have festered.  Now, it is time for you to feel my pain.”

Figures emerged from the darkness.  There were five behind Lee, two behind Ziqiang, and three others coming from one side.  Lee’s eyes immediately latched onto those three, for with them were two others.

“Your husband and child,” Ziqiang said.  “A blind former assassin and a baby.  You gave away the chance for power and sway over a continent for these blubbering bits of flesh.”

Clarke stood stock still, flanked as he was by two of Ziqiang’s women.  They’d taken his glasses and cane.  He likely could have overpowered the two of them, but without his vision the rest would be on him quickly.

Their son, little Hui, was doing his best not to cry.  One of Ziqiang’s women had a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place as he held a gun at his head.  Lee felt herself straightening.  They would _suffer_.

“You mean to kill my family when I have not killed yours,” Lee said, keeping her voice level.  “That is not balance, that is rage.”

Ziqiang stared at Lee.  Her eyes were empty and dark.

“Rage,” Ziqiang said.  “Yes, it is rage.  But it is justified rage.”

“Nothing about this is justice,” Lee said.

Ziqiang laughed.  “Oh, what ideas the West has given you,” she said.  “About justice, about family, about _rage_.  You used to understand, when you were a child of his age.”  Ziqiang gestured at Hui, who shrunk back as if slapped.  “You have been blinded.”

“And you, in turn, blinded my husband,” Lee spat.  She remembered it viscerally: the acid, how he screamed as it ate through his eyes, the _smell_ … Clarke had been depressed for a long time after that.  It had been his last operation, seeing Lee out of China and into the fold of MI6, first as a consultant, then, when her loyalty was proved, as an agent.  Lee had fallen in love with him, her enemy on behalf of Ziqiang, with his swagger and his devil-may-care attitude, and he, miraculously, had fallen for her.  He’d gone back for her, against all authoritative advice, and it had cost him his career.

“But you did not return,” Ziqiang said.  “I gave blindness for your blindness, but my child was not returned to me.  You stole part of my family, part of my business.  That was an unforgivable offense, and one for which you will pay this night.”

Lee eyed the guard holding Hui carefully.  Her gun was pressed against the boy’s head, but, unless Lee’s eyes tricked her, the agent had forgotten to remove the safety.  Her eyes tracked to Clarke.  He was taking in deep breaths, seven in, seven out—waiting for a signal.

Lee reached for the gun at her belt and fired at Ziqiang.


	50. Senescence

Mallory’s head swam and his body ached.  His limbs were stiff and sore, and he struggled to move.  He felt all over like one enormous bruise, though, as he catalogued himself, he could find no external injuries.

Then he remembered: the bodies in Moscow, the gas, the tracker.   _Caldwell_.  The bastard had been waiting for him in Moscow.  Mallory hadn’t smelled the gas trap when he tripped it, but he remembered Caldwell’s smug face looking down at him before he went under.

Mallory found that he was strapped to a table in a small room by himself.  There was a spotlight in his eyes, but the rest of the space was dark.  He shut his eyes to avoid blinding himself, though he saw ghosts of the light even behind his eyelids.  His ears buzzed, and he heard as if through water, but he twitched when he registered something metallic-- _a door opening_ , some part of Mallory’s brain registered.  The rest of him was dull, leaden and useless.  He couldn’t fight or defend himself.

Suddenly, the light behind his eyelids disappeared, replaced by a glowing orange.  Tentatively, Mallory tried to open his eyes.

“Sir,” came a voice, rapidly approaching, “can you stand?”

Mallory tried to look at the figure but could only see in blurry duplicate.  The person made quick work of unstrapping him from the table, but Mallory couldn’t support any of his own weight.

“0014,” Mallory said finally.  His voice was a drunken slur, raspy and rough.

“Sir,” 0014 said.  “I have M.  Where’s Seven?”

Mallory’s head lolled back.  0014 lifted him as if he were nothing and Mallory felt he was going to be sick.  Something was bothering him, something important…

“No, there aren’t any guards that I’ve seen.  It has me worried.”

_Guards_.

“Gas,” Mallory rasped.  0014 wasn’t listening.  Mallory made to beat his fists against 0014’s back, against which his face was unceremoniously pressed as he was hauled over the man’s shoulders, but his hands only knocked uselessly into the agent’s body.

“M?” 0014 asked.  “What is it?”

“Gas,” Mallory repeated.  Something changed in 0014’s expression.  “No guards… Gas.  Traps.”

“Damn it,” 0014 cursed.  “Tell Bond to get his mask on; there’s gas in the rooms, maybe even the hallways.  M says there are gas traps.”  0014 set Mallory down on the floor and fumbled with what appeared to be a mask, then all at once he stopped.  “I’ve only got the one.”

Mallory’s vision swam.  Black creatures, fuzzy and amorphous, converged on the edges of his vision.

“And I’m losing him.   _Shit_.”

There was something else Mallory wanted to tell him.  It was escaping his mind for the moment, and it had him panicking.  He felt his heart fluttering in his chest, so weak, so old for this sort of work.

“Six,” Mallory said.

“Six what?” 0014 asked sharply.  He was rummaging around in his gear with that ridiculous mask on his face, one that made him look like the Devil, or it would have, had Mallory not met the Devil not too long ago.

“Alive.”

“Six alive?  What are there six of that are alive?”  Mallory’s head rolled to one side.  “No, come on, sir, what are there six of?”

“Tell Seven.”

Mallory didn’t see 0014’s face light up, but he heard, “Christ.  It’s 006.  Trevelyan’s alive.  M, did you see him?”

“Torture,” Mallory said.  “Gas.  Electricity,” he mumbled.

“Was Adam responsible?”

Mallory tensed.  “The Devil.”

0014 was talking to him, but Mallory remembered: he saw those horrible glass cubes that Caldwell had dragged him past. Trevelyan hadn’t seen him, slouched as he had been against the ground.  There had been a body bag on a stretcher positioned just in front of his cell.  Trevelyan had been breathing, though, Mallory was sure of it.

Or, he had been breathing before the screams started, by which point Mallory had been led away for his own “treatment”.

Gas and needles and something that emitted radiation.  There had been an explanation, but Mallory’s head had never cleared enough to hear it.

“Get out,” Mallory said.  He couldn’t see 0014, but he knew he was still there.  “Get out.”

“I’m going to get you out,” 0014 assured him.  Mallory shook his head, and his brain throbbed in his skill.  His vision was as good as gone, and his chest felt odd, as if it were too full.   _Gas_.  Even as he registered these things, though, 0014 was lifting him again.  He was going up, up, up—and he just kept going.


	51. Experimentation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: graphic depictions of torture ahead.

Bond slipped on his mask as soon as Q gave the word.  He didn’t smell anything odd, but some of the most dangerous gases were odourless, so that didn’t count for much.

“0014’s getting Mallory out now,” Q said.  He sounded uneasy.  “You’re not going to have much time.  The exterior alarms weren’t tripped by you going inside, but with the two of them trying to get out--”

“I’m not leaving yet,” Bond said.  “Mallory said Alec was here and alive.  Surprise attack or not, I’m going to find him.”

“Scans of the building indicate that there are no sub-level floors,” Q said.  “The cameras are more sparse than I would like, but you’ve been around most of the first storey.”

“Lots of empty observation rooms,” Bond said.   _Likely all gas-traps_.  Bond wondered how much he’d breathed in and what it had been.  “I’m going to head upstairs.  There’s an elevator and a stairwell around this corner.”  Bond knew Q couldn’t see him rightfully but it was rather hard to be more specific when everything was perfectly white and clinical, almost like a hospital.

“Lee hasn’t come back yet,” Q murmured.

“No,” Bond said.  “Walker’s coming to you, though.  Whether Lee returns or not, you’ll be safe.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about and you know it.”

Bond didn’t respond.  He knew better than to trust the elevator, and the stairwell looked clear, but looks could be deceiving.  Slowly, he made his way up.  He kept his gun up throughout, but the lack of personnel made him uneasy.  There were lights on, and Mallory had been on the first floor.  There had to be others, the question was where.

The next storey was clear.  Bond made the full rounds and saw no one.

“I don’t like this,” Q murmured in his ear.

_You and me both_ , Bond thought.  He didn’t bother to say so much  The silence of the building was getting to him, and he was loathe to speak.

Gingerly, Bond climbed the stairs a second time to go up to the third level.

“I wonder if the building’s—”

_Empty_ , Bond thought Q might have said, had Bond not just narrowly missed a bullet to his cheek.

“Sorry,” Q said, somewhat sheepishly.  Once more, Bond didn’t respond; he was rather too busy returning fire.

Bond dispatched his attackers with relative ease.  They were piss-poor shots, all three of them.  When Bond went to check the bodies, he discovered why.

“Scientists,” Bond murmured.  They were dressed in white lab coats and white gas masks, possibly to blend into the white walls.  They looked like they’d never so much as held guns before, much less done the sort of work that was rote to Bond.  Something was odd about all of this.  As he turned one of the bodies over, he found something surgically implanted in the neck of the corpse.  Bond found the same in each of the others.

Carefully, Bond chose one of the dead men and held his head in his lap.  Using a small-bladed knife meant for close-quarters combat, he dug the object out: it was a piece of plastic, no bigger than a thumbnail.  Bond didn’t have too long to examine it: no sooner had he dug it out than a red light on one side lit up.  He dropped it just as it exploded.  While not large-scale, if it had remained lodged against the skull...

“Adam has hostages,” Bond reported.  “These men were rigged with bombs, surgically implanted.”

Q said nothing, and Bond continued moving cautiously toward the top of the building.  The keycard from the guard outside had gotten him everywhere so far, but he snatched another off of one of the dead scientists just in case.

The rooms on the next storey were different than the lower two levels.  The stairwell put Bond in what he determined to be the absolute middle of the building, and the hallways around him were short and compact.  The rooms themselves were enormous, each taking up around a quarter of the facility.  There were big rectangular glass cases lined up like bookshelves on all sides.  Several scientists guarded each, and though one or two shot at Bond only to be killed by his return fire, most fled the area.  Whatever they were there for, Adam wasn’t primarily using them for security.

“Q,” Bond said as he entered the first room and saw the first of the cases.

“What do you see?”

It took a lot to turn Bond’s stomach.  Just one of what he saw might not have bothered him, but there were so many…

“Adam’s been conducting experiments on humans,” Bond said, as clinically and terribly precise as he knew how.  He approached one of the glass cells.  Its occupant didn’t appear to be breathing, which was good because Bond had never known a live human to be that exact shade of blue before.  Boils covered the corpse’s skin, and several of its limbs had been severed.  Other cells were in similar states.  One of the bodies seemed to be oozing a green gas that was contained within the cell.

“Is Walker or Lee back yet?” Bond asked.  He swallowed once.  Something moved in one of the cells—underneath the skin of its ex-inhabitant.  It was too large to be a maggot.

“Someone’s coming now,” Q said doubtfully.  Bond forced himself not to panic.

“There are,” Bond hesitated on the word _people_ , “others in here.  Alec’s likely not going to be in good shape.” _If he’s alive_.

Q was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll tell them to get to you as soon as possible.”

Bond kept an ear out for what was going on with Q and returned to the hall.  He didn’t know how to help the people in those glass cages.  All he knew was that he needed to find Alec, kill Adam, and get back to Q.  Q couldn’t be allowed to come any nearer to this--this.  Nothing else mattered.

He told himself this as he tried the other three rooms on the third level, only to find the same in each.  No Alec; just another set of grotesquely-occupied cells and a few scared scientists who Bond shot out of anger and disgust.

The fourth floor was the same.  Bond felt ill.

“Walker’s headed your way.  The alarms have been tripped, but nothing appears to be locking down.  Please proceed cautiously,” Q reported finally.  He hesitated, then said, “Mallory is dead.  R’s trying to get a pulse on him, but…”

“Right,” Bond said.  He sounded calmer than he felt.  “I’ll be careful.”

“Right,” Q echoed.  “I haven’t seen any big movement on the cameras.  They’re in odd positions.”

Bond hadn’t seen one for quite some time.  He was beginning to suspect he knew the reason why.

“The building only has five levels,” Q said.  “If you’re on the fourth and haven’t found anyone, Adam should be at the top.  Please be careful, James.  I advise waiting until 0014 arrives at your location.”

Based on what he had seen, Bond didn’t think time was on their side.  “I’m going up now, Q,” Bond said, putting on what he hoped was his gentlest stern voice.

“James—”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t need to hear this,” Bond said.  He removed his earwig and crushed it under the sole of his shoe, then began the climb.  On the way, he checked his equipment.  His gas mask was undamaged, and he had enough ammunition to get him through a moderate firefight.  As long as there weren’t too many guards waiting at the top with Adam, he’d be fine.

Which meant, Bond figured, he was thoroughly buggered.

Voices drifted down from the stairwell.  Bond hesitated until he realized that the speakers were _singing_.  It was an opera, Bond realized: _Faust_.

At the top of the stairs, Bond swiveled around, searching for something, _anything_.  Something had switched on the music.  Someone had left Mallory to die.  Bond was sure it would be up here.

There was a single door at the top--no corridors, no compartments, no hallways, just a single door. Bond opened it.

The light inside was, if possible, brighter, and the music louder.  Bond was grabbed from one side, and he instinctively retaliated, sending a bullet in that direction.  He caught sight of the second and third men to ambush him a fraction of a second too late and found himself disarmed, unmasked, and manhandled into the main of the room.

Bond allowed himself to be towed along.  The men were strong, but not so strong he couldn’t break free.  He allowed them to lead him forward as he took inventory: guards came forward from their positions along the wall that had the door from which he’d emerged, some several dozen in total, all toting guns.  Unlike the scientists from downstairs, these men looked like they knew what they were doing.

“Well, look at this,” said Laurentin Adam, “we have company.”


	52. Children

Q cursed and threw his headset down.  It did nothing, but the sound of the metal cracking as it hit the floor was oddly satisfying.  Maybe that was why Bond broke his equipment all of the time.

R jumped as he stood up.  “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice shaking.  Her hands shook too, as she held the line to Moneypenny, Argall, and the rest.  Someone on that end was talking emphatically, but R wasn’t listening and Q couldn’t bear to hear any more bad news.  Q shook his head at R in lieu of answer and took a deep, deep breath.  Q didn’t envy her even a little bit.  She was in so incredibly far over her head.  They both were.

“I can’t see a bloody thing in there,” Q said.  “Bond fried his line.  He’s going blind, as if I was any help.”

R paled.  “Here,” she said, “talk to Fourteen.”

“He asked for you.”

“Please,” R said.  “I can’t do this.  I can’t do this.”

Q hesitated, then took the line.  “It’s Q,” he said.

“Where’s Seven?” 0014 asked.

“Storming the top floor by himself, probably going to get himself killed.  I need you to get there now,” Q said shortly.  “Don’t mind security because there isn’t much.  Just do it.”

“Copy,” 0014 said.  “I’m already back inside.  The gates were left open.”

“The alarms tripped when you left.  They know he’s there,” Q said.  “Get upstairs, and stay sharp.  Bond said the first four floors held prisoners but not Adam.  That being said, the guards that were outside might be patrolling or waiting to ambush now.”

Q could hear 0014 running, taking the stairs and floors as fast as he dared.

“Is Lee back yet?’ 0014 asked.

Q glanced at R, who stared out of the hatch of the plane.  “No,” he said, “I don’t know where she is.”

“I didn’t pass her on the way there or back,” 0014 said.

“Stay on target, please,” Q ordered.

0014 hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir.”

Q sat back down and sighed.  His hands were trembling, and the cameras had nothing interesting to show him--just wide expanses of white walls and white rooms where nothing moved.  Bond was off, possibly getting himself killed at the hands of a deranged sociopath who probably had Alec.  Q felt absolutely powerless.

“Q,” R said.  Her voice was shakier than before.  Q considered ignoring her, then thought of how terrified she sounded.  “Q, come here, please.”

Q came to stand at the hatch of the plane with her.  He doubted anyone would be able to see them; they’d left all but the laptops dark, and even those were heavily dimmed.

Still, a small figure holding a gnarled stick appeared to be running at them head-on.

“Q,” R asked, speaking so softly, “what is that?”

Q’s response was to step back into the plane, feeling around blindly for what he was looking for.  R made a nervous noise as whoever it was approached rapidly.  Q hadn’t found it yet, but he was sure that it was nearby…

Q’s hand latched onto the gun around the time the thing hit R head on.  Q made to fire until he heard the sobbing.  Someone was crying, and it didn’t sound like the consultant.

“Q, get the lights,” R said.  There was panic in her voice.  Unlike the gun, Q knew exactly where to get light: he switched on a miniature torch that he’d kept stuck in his pocket and shone it in the direction of the noises.

R lay on the floor of the plane, pinned down by a child who was sobbing uncontrollably and holding a walking stick.  As soon as the light hit, he sat up, his nose running and his cheeks wet.  Q was suddenly grateful 0014 had had the foresight to put Mallory’s body in a bag near the back as soon as he reached the plane.  Q had a feeling that this would have been a lot worse with a corpse sitting in the open.

“Mama told me to find you,” the boy said.  “She and papa are hurt.  They need help, they need help…”

Q took a step forward and his eardrum nearly ruptured from the sound of gunfire exploding.  He’d forgotten about the earwig.

“Found some guards,” 0014 reported.  “Nasty bastards.”

Q glanced at R.  She stood up shakily and said, “Who’s your mama and papa?”

“Mama and papa,” the boy said, pulling at R’s hand.  R looked at Q, then at the boy.

“Bad idea,” Q said to her.  To 0014, he said, “Return fire.  Do you see Bond?”

“Negative, I’m on the fourth level.  They were going up, too.  Ambush, probably, or execution.”  Gunfire and the sound of 0014 breathing heavily through his gas mask filled Q’s ears.

“It’s a _child_ ,” R said.

“They’ve killed better and used worse,” Q said.  He glanced at the boy, who seemed to be fighting back the urge to cry again.  “We don’t know who his parents are.  It’s probably a trap—he probably led them straight here—and we should get out _now_.”

“Led who here?” R demanded.

The boy pointed at something--the jacket Yin Lee had left behind.  “Mama,” he said.  “Mama needs help.”

Q felt his blood pressure drop, and when R looked to Q this time, he hesitated, then nodded.  He watched R grab the coat and drape it around the boy’s shoulders.

“What about the stick?” R asked.  “Did your mama tell you to bring that to us?”

The boy shook his head.  “The mean lady was trying to hit mama with it,” he said.  On closer inspection, Q could see that it wasn’t a stick so much as a cane, a gnarled wooden thing.

R tossed the cane outside. She looked down at the comm line in her hands, the one that linked back to Vauxhall.

“I’m going to leave this here,” R said.  Q heard someone on the other end speak.  “I don’t know.  There’s a child who says Lee’s his mother.”

The little boy was pulling on R’s trousers, trying to get her to move.  “Mama,” he said.  “Help mama.”

“I don’t want to know,” R said, “but I’m going to try, and I’m going to leave this here.”

Gingerly, she set the comm line down and looked to Q.

“Did they have anything interesting to say?” Q asked.

“Something about the DG something something,” R said.  “Apparently reinforcements are coming.”

Q frowned, and R hesitated a moment longer before she followed the boy as he led her into the darkness.  The DGSE didn’t do domestic troubles, but if the DGSI was on its way, then Moneypenny’s new MI5 friends were certainly pulling their weight.

Q didn’t have too long to think about any of it.  “Guards are down,” 0014 said, cutting through the new silence.  Q switched off his torch and sat down.  Alone in the dark, he felt as if he would be violently ill.  He had actually managed to forget about what was happening for that brief moment.   _Yin Lee had a child?_

“Right,” Q said.  He hoped the shake in his voice wasn’t as audible over the comm line as he thought it was.  “Bring Bond back, 0014.  Reinforcements may be coming, but they’re likely too far away to be helpful.  You can count on being on your own.”

“On my way upstairs now.”

Q heard the squelch of blood under 0014’s boots as he climbed the last flight.

“It’s awfully loud up there,” 0014 said.

“Gunfire?” Q asked.  He heard nothing of the kind from 0014’s end, but it didn’t hurt to check.

0014 hesitated, then said, “Singing.  Sounds like opera.”

“Opera.”

0014 didn’t respond.

“Right,” Q said, “proceed with caution.  Take Adam alive if possible,” _or desirable_ , Q thought bitterly, “get Bond and any others who might be up there,” _Alec_ , Q mentally added, “and get out.”

“I’ll bring your boy back,” 0014 said.  Q could hear the smile in his voice.  “Ponsonby’d flay me alive otherwise.  I’d hate to see you turn violent, either.  Going in now.”  0014’s voice was at a near whisper.  He’d gotten to the top, Q guessed; the music was particularly loud.  His laptop picked out a few notes for him and told him it was _Faust_.  How fitting.

“I’m going to go quiet, if that’s all right,” 0014 said.

“You’re far more polite about this than James,” Q remarked.

“I don’t have grounds to be cheeky with you,” 0014 said, and Q could swear he heard the wink in the man’s voice.

Q blushed.  “Well, then, carry on.”

“Yes, sir.”


	53. Reinforcements

R’s night vision was terrible.  The child tugging at her fingertips—she’d tried to get his name, but he just told her that his mama told him not to give his name to strangers—seemed to know where he was going, but R was lost.

The sky was quite clear, but the moon did little to illuminate the world.  R marched through damp, short grass, trailing behind this tiny child.  Looking behind her, she could no longer see the plane they’d come in on.

“How did you find us?” R asked.

“Mama and papa taught me,” the boy said.  R didn’t have much to say to that, except she couldn’t picture that terrifying woman doing anything good with a child.

All at once, the boy took off running, and R had to jog to keep up with him.

“Mama!” he yelled.  “Papa, mama!”

The boy stopped as soon as he’d started, and R nearly tripped over him.

“Hey—” R stopped herself short and dropped to her knees beside the child.  “Oh, God.  What can I do?”

It was hard to see what all had happened, but it didn’t look good.  A man, bald and well-muscled, lay in the grass.  There was a dark stain on one side of his torso, and someone had gone at his face with something blunt.  Beside him sat Lee.  She had dark splotches on her face and hands.  Beyond that, R couldn’t tell because her clothes were so dark.

“Mama,” the boy said, grabbing onto Lee.  Lee cradled him in close and said something in a language R didn’t understand—Chinese, maybe?  R had learned Spanish at university, and it certainly wasn’t that.

To R, Lee said, “I can’t carry him.”  She gestured at the man in the grass.  R looked around briefly before meeting Lee’s eyes and nodding, though she had to swallow back the bile rising in her throat.  She couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead.  She wondered, too, what had happened to Ziqiang, or whoever else had been out here.  R looked about for signs of life and caught sight of several unmoving lumps.  R looked resolutely away.  They certainly didn’t look like rocks.

Carefully, R approached the man.  He groaned when R made to lift one of his arms, which was a tremendous relief.  At least someone was alive.

“On three,” Lee murmured from the man’s other side.  She crouched on the ground, watching R.  In the dark, R couldn’t rightly see her expression, but she nodded anyway.

“One, two, _three_ ,” Lee said, grunting with the effort of lifting the man.  He groaned again, this time much louder.  R winced in sympathy but didn’t know what to say.

Lee, on the other hand, kept up a steady litany of words.  She spoke, sometimes in English, sometimes not, constantly as they walked back toward the plane.  R’s arms ached; she wasn’t used to this sort of lifting, not at all, particularly not when it was so important not to fail.  She forced herself to keep her grip, one of his arms slung over her shoulder and her hands at his torso.

R followed Lee’s lead back to the plane.  Her eyes had adjusted some, but not nearly enough to figure out where they were.  Distantly, she thought she was far too calm about this: carrying a dying man, helping someone she now knew to be an assassin break into a lab to apprehend an arms dealer.  When this was all over, R thought she would lock herself in her office and never emerge again.

She’d have to bring Fidda in with her, she realized.  She hoped the girl was still all right back at Vauxhall.  She had only briefly seen her before leaving for Moscow and feared that she would be lost in those cold hallways.  Moneypenny had said that Fidda wasn’t to leave until the situation was settled, but Fidda didn’t belong there.  Neither of them did.

R forced herself not to think about it anymore.  She readjusted her grip and kept moving.

The plane snuck up on R, emerging out of the darkness like some enormous behemoth.

“Almost there,” Lee said, one of the few things she’d uttered that was anywhere near intelligible to R.  “We’re almost there.”

As they came close, R could see Q standing in the hatch of the plane.  Moonlight glinted off of his glasses, and he ran out to meet them.

“0014’s comm is down,” he said.  “Moneypenny’s been asking after you.”  Lee growled at him, and R flinched.  Q raised his hands.  “How can I help?”

“He needs medical attention beyond what you can provide,” Lee said.

“DGSI are on their way with doctors,” Q said.  “I coordinated with Moneypenny.  They’re coming here, now.”

They maneuvered the injured man into the plane and turned on a few lights.  The little boy sat next to his father and Lee, and shook.  Lee wrapped her jacket around the boy and clutched him closely.

R looked at the scene, then at Q, who looked ill.

“They’re coming,” Q said.  He wasn’t looking at the man on the floor but rather outside.  R didn’t hear anything and wondered who Q was trying to convince.

“Give me Moneypenny,” Lee ordered.

The man on the floor coughed and made an abortive move with his hand that caught Lee’s attention.

“Yes,” Lee said, “Ziqiang wouldn’t have found you had they not been more careful.”

The man made a sound that sounded like Lee’s name.  Lee hesitated and sat back.  She eyed the line in Q’s hand.

“Tell them that my family is safe,” Lee said, “and if they make a single move against the rest of it, I’ll burn MI5 and MI6 to the ground.”

Q sighed and picked up the line.

“Moneypenny,” he said.  “Lee’s back and she’s not happy.  If Ponsonby is hurt—”

“Loelia and Afanen both,” Lee interjected.

“—Or if Argall is hurt or otherwise put in a dangerous situation,” Q continued, “Lee has made a threat against you.”  R heard someone respond, and Q said, “They’ve noted it and have informed the French team to move faster.”

Lee muttered something that, even not understanding whatever language she spoke, R recognized as a curse.

“Right,” Q said, sitting down.  “Now, we wait.”

Lee nudged her boy and said something that made him stand and approach R.

“Hey, lady,” the little boy said.  Lee nudged him, and the boy coloured.  “Doctor,” he said.  R sat down so that they were closer to eye level.  “Thanks,” he said.  “You helped my mama and papa.”

“You are very welcome,” R said.  The little boy grinned and ran back to Lee, who enveloped him in her arms once more.

“He’s learning manners,” Lee said to R.  “That was very good, Hui.”

“Your side’s opened up again,” Q said to Lee.  He nodded at where he’d put stitches after the attack on the hotel in Moscow.  “I can redo them, if you’d like.”

Lee shook her head.  “I’m fine,” she said.  She looked down at the man on the floor.  “This fool, on the other hand…”

The man laughed, then coughed.  Lee shushed him gently.  R noticed that she’d positioned herself so that by merely sitting next to him, she was putting pressure on his wounds, trying to ensure that he didn’t bleed out.  R sighed and slumped forward.

“The lines are down,” she said softly.  “Bond and Fourteen.”

“Walker,” Lee said.  “His name is William Walker.”  R looked at Lee.  “He’d want you to know.”

“William Walker,” R echoed.  “Someone from MI5 told me that his last name was Walker.  I didn’t believe him.”

Lee smiled a little.  “You don’t trust MI5?” she asked.  “Clever girl.”

Q stood just as beams of light in R’s peripheral vision caught her attention.

“They’re here,” he said.


	54. An End

“So, we have a brother and a lover,” Adam said, clasping  his hands together.  “I assume the other can’t be far away.  Now, if the girl weren’t already dead, I could have a complete set all at once!  I would not know where to start, no.”

“Undoubtedly,” Bond said with a false smile.  There were too many guns to make a break for it, he realized.  Jonathan Caldwell—Bond recognized his face from the mugshot Q had pulled up for him—had a few rather formidable mercenaries at his back.  Bond did his best to scan the room for anything he might use to get out of this mess.

Bond didn’t recognize Trevelyan the first he saw him.

Slouched in his cell like so many others Bond had seen, his hair was matted and his skin was tinged with grey.  Only when Bond spoke, when he looked up, did Bond see the eyes: Alec Trevelyan was alive, but barely.

“Such a shame,” Adam said, dropping his hands, “I cannot seem to stop myself.  It really is so informative, my work.”

Everything Bond could see was either in the hands of the enemy or too far away.  “Do you design the poisons yourself, then?” Bond asked.

“Poisons?” Adam questioned.  “I would not call them that, but yes, I do design all that I use, down to the lasers and the ropes.  I am very good at what I do.”

“So why this?” Bond asked.

“Why, are you asking me to give an explanation of my life’s work?” Adam asked.  “My plans for the future, no doubt ‘evil’ in your eyes?  I am afraid that I see you searching the room and I say, _non_.  The only explanation you require is a hands-on demonstration of my research—work that Anastas will no longer inhibit.”  Adam looked away from Bond and made contact with a guard.  “Chamber two, if you please.”

Without another option, Bond dropped to the floor, taking the guards holding him in place down with him.  A gunshot rang out, and one collapsed on top of him.  While he was distracted, Bond snagged the gun that had been confiscated along with the guard’s and began shooting.

Adam was shouting in French, giving orders while moving steadily toward a table.  Bond kicked his way out from under one dead man and found himself hoisted up.

“Need a hand?” Walker asked, firing at someone over Bond’s left shoulder.  Bond’s ear rang as the shot rang out.  Someone came at Walker with a knife, and Bond shot him in return, though not before the knife came a little too close to Walker’s ear.  Walker cursed as blood flowed, and his ear piece fell to the floor, damaged by the attack.

“Oh, are you helping?” Bond asked.  He repositioned himself so that he was at Walker’s back and took aim at one of several guards flooding in from another entrance.  He took a shot at Caldwell for good measure but missed.

“Payback for Bahrain.  I’ve got orders to get you out,” Walker said, “catch Adam alive, and get Trevelyan if he’s here.”

“He is,” Bond said.  Two guards went down, and Bond ducked as a barrage of bullets flew his way.

“Good, because I didn’t want that to be the one I didn’t do.”

Bond glanced at Walker over his shoulder to find that he was aiming at Adam.  Bond ducked for the safety of the stairwell to reload and nearly caught a bullet in his arm for his trouble.  There was another taking aim at Walker that Bond caught as soon as he’d loaded the next cartridge, but someone else Bond couldn’t see had Walker hitting the floor to duck.  Bond cursed the absolute lack of cover in the room.  There was no place to hide.

All at once, the music—Bond had gotten accustomed to it to the point that he’d forgotten it was playing—cut out, and Adam cried out, “Gentlemen, please, if I may have your attention!”

All gunfire ceased.  Walker had taken aim but wasn’t firing.  A look around the corner told Bond all he needed to know: Adam stood by a desk, holding something in the air.

“I push this button and he dies immediately,” Adam said simply.  “You cannot open his chamber without me.  Drop your weapons and come to the center of the room.”  Neither Bond nor Walker moved.  “Now, dears.  We do not have all night.”

The lights flickered, and Bond looked toward the ceiling.  He thought he heard something— _helicopter blades_ —and if he was right, they needed to buy a little bit more time.

“I’ve put my gun down,” Bond called.  Walker’s attention snapped over to him as he stood, coming out of the safety of the doorway.  The path to the center of the room was riddled with dead guards and their guns.  Adam looked triumphant.

“Hands high, now,” Adam said.  Bond made a show of raising his hands.  With a curse, Walker put his gun down as well.  Bond moved very slowly, listening carefully.

“Come, now—”

The lights flickered, then went out entirely.  Bond hit the floor, grabbed the nearest weapon, and fired where Adam had been standing.  Beside, he heard Walker do something similar.  Several people screamed, something hit the floor, and Bond’s vision was filled with pops of light as Adam’s guards took aim, the sparks from the ignition leaving fireworks behind Bond’s eyes.  Walker let out a yell that told Bond he’d been hit.  The lights flashed on again, then off, which only informed Bond that there was even more security than he’d bargained for and they were coming closer.

The lights came on one last time and a handful of men and women strode in and began shooting.  Bond sighed.  He’d never been more relieved to see his colleagues, nor did he think he’d ever feel the same way ever again.  Several of Adam’s guards dropped their weapons; the few that were moronic enough to shoot back found themselves either dead or injured and on their knees.

“Walker,” one of the women said.

“Scarlett,” Walker said.  “Didn’t think you’d make it in time.”

Scarlett shrugged.  “Ponsonby said to make it fast.  Glad you’re not dead.”  To Bond, she said, “Where’s Alec?”

Bond rose and ran to Trevelyan’s chamber.  Carefully, he moved the stretcher with the corpse to one side.  It had been disfigured beyond recognition and smelled something rotten, but there was nothing to do about it now.  The material between Bond and Trevelyan—not glass as Bond had expected, but something much more durable—was sturdy and unyielding beneath his hands.

“I can fix that.”

Bond turned to see Q standing beside Scarlett.  Adam watched him almost hungrily as Q picked up a tablet from off of Adam’s desk.

At once, the wall between Bond and Trevelyan was withdrawing into the floor, and Bond felt a wave of something gaseous hit him full in the face.  He coughed as the smell of almonds, of all things, hit his nose.

Bond pulled at the cords that bolted Trevelyan to the walls.  His wrists were cut to shreds, ostensibly from tugging in a bid to escape, and one of his arms felt dislocated.  Trevelyan tried to speak but Bond couldn’t make out a word.

“James, is he…” Q trailed off as he came to stand beside Bond.  His face turned an unhealthy shade of green as he took in the sight.  “Ropes, right,” Q said, swallowing.  “There was something about those… There,” Q said.  Trevelyan’s restraints opened and withdrew into the walls.  Without the support of them, Trevelyan pitched forward.  Bond caught him, supporting his weight as best as he could.

“We’ve got you,” Bond said.  “Alec.”

Q stood beside him and watched Trevelyan, slumped and silent.

Near-maniacal laughter drew Bond’s attention.

“He won’t be the same,” Adam said.  He was bleeding from his gut, and he still held that switch.  Almost without thinking, he flicked his finger over something.  Caldwell, along with most of the room’s remaining security, fell from their knees to the floor.  Blood trickled out their noses and mouths.  Bond heard Q take in a single, sharp breath, and he moved to stand in front of him even as he tried to keep Trevelyan upright.

“He’s fascinating,” Adam said.  “Wish I could have had his father.  Such _resilience_ , such—”

No one got to hear what Adam had to say.  Bond felt a tug at his shirt—no, his _holster_ —as Trevelyan grabbed his gun, took aim, and fired.  His arm dropped on the recoil, and Bond scrambled to get a better hold on him.

Walker approached Adam and checked for a pulse.

“Good shot,” he said.  “He’s dead.”


	55. Together (Reprise)

_Three months later_

 

The air had just started to turn chill around Brackley.  The autumn flowers that had been planted in the front and back gardens grew taller and stronger than before, due in no small part to Q’s ministrations.  Bond had found him poring over volumes about plant care and gardening several times since they’d taken up temporary residence in the old safe house.  Q had developed a new appreciation for things that grew, the organic and the living, something he confessed he’d never really had before.  Bond was surprised, if only a little.  Mostly, he couldn’t help but smile at Q whenever he caught sight of him.

_They had survived_.

His smile turned to a frown when he caught sight of Trevelyan, who was staying with them until “he got back on his feet”, according to Moneypenny.  His was a different kind of survival.

“Alec,” Bond said, sitting beside him on the steps of the Brackley safe house.  Q was around back, determinedly staying out of the way.  Bond had seen him and Trevelyan conferring earlier and figured this was his turn to find out what was on his friend’s mind.

And it had to be something.  Ever since they’d returned, bloody and beaten, from Lyon, Trevelyan had been different.  Adam’s last words rang permanently in Bond’s ears, but he kept hoping that the old Trevelyan would emerge, in a smile or a look or even a gesture.  It didn’t, and with each passing day, Bond grew more and more tense.

“Give him time,” Q advised him one night, but the _how long_ remained unclear.  Bond had said nothing, opting instead to plant his lips on Q’s collarbone and keep them there.

“James,” Trevelyan said, knocking Bond with one elbow.  Neither said anything for a moment, just looked out across the grass and flowers and off into the blue, blue sky.  Bond remembered sitting here with Q after escaping Vauxhall.  It seemed like such a long time ago, now.  “You worry too much,” Trevelyan said.

Bond’s lips twitched.  “I suppose,” he said.

Trevelyan knocked him again, and Bond knocked him back.  When he looked to Treveylan’s face, his eyes caught on the scars.  They seemed worse, somehow, though Adam had done nothing discernible to his face.

“Can’t stomach it myself, either,” Trevelyan said, looking away.  “I don’t see myself anymore.”

“Alec…”

Trevelyan opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again.  “I’ve already told Q,” he said, “what I’m going to do.”

Bond let the remark hang.  Trevelyan would tell him when he was ready.  He always did.  They were _friends_.

“I can’t go back,” Trevelyan said.  Bond restrained the urge to remind him that neither he nor Q were returning to MI6.  They’d met with Moneypenny not a week ago to discuss wrapping up their business.  She’d been disappointed, but she understood.  Official documents said that both James Bond, aka 007, and Colby Elwes, aka Q, had died due to injuries sustained on the ground in Lyon.  They were to be commended within the confines of MI6 protocol, then forgotten.  Their titles would be reassigned; there would be new faces and names and operations.  They would be free.

But that wasn’t exactly what Trevelyan meant, and Bond knew it.

“A couple weeks ago, I was contacted,” Trevelyan said, “by Aleksey Kohut.”  Bond sat up a little straighter.   _Kohut_.  He never thought he’d hear that name again.  “I thought he was dead, too.  He’s looking for new business partners.  There’s a vacuum out there, left by my father, by his circle.”

It was still jarring, hearing those words from Trevelyan.  Q, for his part, never spoke of Anastas.

“Q’s offered to help, but I don’t want to put him in a compromising situation,” Trevelyan continued.

Bond thought of Q, of Trevelyan, of Anastas.  Nothing that had transpired had done right by anyone.

“Q will do what he wants,” Bond said.  “How can I help?”

* * *

_Moscow, One Year Later_

 

“That one,” Trevelyan said.  He eyed the weapons laid before him critically, running his fingers over the barrels of several of the finer pieces.  His prospective supplier had a rather sizable, well-lit warehouse, but it was poorly heated.  Beside him, Kohut cursed the cold.  He’d never fully recovered from Ziqiang’s attack, and he wouldn’t speak of how he survived, but his insights were invaluable. He knew the business from the other end, and while Trevelyan could keep them from getting caught, Kohut knew how to run the operation. Together, they would finish what Anastas had started.

“Janus!”  Trevelyan turned at the name.  He’d chosen it against Kohut’s advice—the older man thought it too theatrical, too memorable.  Trevelyan had found that he didn’t much care.  “It’s Belize,” the speaker said.  “Marchenko blundered.”

Trevelyan picked up a rifle, sighting down the barrel.  He thought of Bond and Q and hoped that they had done as they’d  planned and left MI6 for good.  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do them harm.  They’d helped him get out; they’d understood his rage, his inability to go back.  None of them could go back.

“Let’s clean house,” he murmured.

* * *

_Vauxhall_

 

“M,” Kimberly said, leaning into Moneypenny’s office, “consultant P is on line three.”

Moneypenny sighed and opened the line, sending a long-suffering look in Tanner’s direction.  He arched his eyebrows and sat back, but Moneypenny didn’t imagine the smile that played across his face.

“Ponsonby,” Moneypenny said.

“M,” Ponsonby responded.  “Good of you to finally take my calls.  I believe we’re going to have something of a situation in Belize quite soon.  Is Lee with you?”

“Cambridge,” Moneypenny said, “but R’s lecture ended seven minutes ago, so she should be returning shortly.”

“Good,” Ponsonby said.  “This’ll be a job for the double-0 section.”

* * *

“ _This’ll be a job for the double-0 section_ ,” Ponsonby’s tinny voice said.

“Hm,” Argall said, frowning.  “What are you up to?”

“Q?” Ahmed asked.  “Is something wrong?”

Argall looked up from her laptop and shook her head.  “Not yet,” she said.  “Better start collecting a kit, though.  Just in case.”

* * *

_Cambridge_

 

“Fission is a form of nuclear transmutation,” R said, standing tall at the front of the lecture hall.  One hundred prospective physics majors scribbled in unison as she paced in front of a board.  “It can be induced by a neutron, or it can be what’s termed spontaneous fission, the likes of which can be easily recognized in uranium.”

In the audience, she saw a little hand go up.  There were whispers across the class, and muffled giggling.

“Yes?” R asked gently.

“What’s _spontaniteous_ mean?” Hui asked from Lee’s lap.  His mispronunciation of _spontaneous_ drew a few more giggles.  R heard someone pointing out how adorable the little boy was.  Confused, Hui looked from R to Lee, a little frown across his face.  Lee bounced Hui on one knee and smiled softly at him.  Beside her, Fidda studiously took notes, and though R couldn’t tell for sure, it looked like Fidda was smiling.

R smiled, too, and began to explain.  If she noticed how Lee drew her buzzing mobile out of her jacket, or how she frowned at the screen as she tapped a response, she didn’t show it.

* * *

Outside R’s lecture hall, two men sat on a bench.

“Damn it, Walker,” Clarke said, irritable as always, “give me that back.”

Walker grinned and held Clarke’s cane just out of reach.

“I’ll tell the good doctor,” Clarke said, his voice as near sing-song as it could get.

Walker scowled and handed the cane back.  A buzzing drew his attention, and he pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

“Your wife,” Walker said to Clarke.

Clarke smiled and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “Where are you being shipped?”

“Belize.”

* * *

_Marseilles_

 

Q’s shirtsleeves were pushed up as far as they could go.  Since they’d helped Trevelyan out of the UK and into Eastern Europe, Bond had rarely seen Q any other way.  Getting Trevelyan out had been messy, and they hadn’t been able to stay in the same place for more than a few weeks, but they were _together_.

Bond had never thought that would be enough, and yet there they were.

“There, now,” Q said, sitting back on his haunches, “much better.”

“What’s that?” Bond asked.  He stepped out of the toilet, still buttoning up his shirt.  When Q looked up, he had the grace to look slightly sheepish.  “What did the stove ever do to you?”

“It rattled, and it didn’t close properly,” Q said.  He had a streak of grime across one cheek that he rubbed at absently, smearing it further.  “What?”

“Beautiful,” Bond said.  Q’s ears turned pink, and he tossed a wrench in Bond’s direction.  When Bond kept smiling,  he looked down at his grease-covered hands.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, lurching to his feet.  He pushed past Bond to head to the toilet.  “I’ll need to shower again, I suppose.”

Bond came to stand behind him.  He wrapped his arms around Q’s waist and kissed the grease stain.

“I’ll have to join you, then,” he murmured.

Q tried to stifle a laugh and Bond nuzzled into his neck.

“ _James_ ,” he said.

Bond’s smile only grew wider, teeth grazing the tender skin of Q’s neck.

“You were right,” Q said.  He sounded slightly out of breath, and Bond glanced at the bathroom mirror to see Q’s face.  His ears were still red, and for all that Bond had barely touched him, he looked _wrecked_.

“Oh?” Bond murmured.  Q turned in his arms to face him, then planted a chaste kiss on his lips.

“I do like Marseille,” Q said.  His slender, deft fingers began undoing the buttons Bond had just done, and neither of them could be arsed to care.

* * *

They heard about Belize three days later.

“Alec,” Q murmured.  From their room in Marseilles, Q watched what little footage there was on his laptop.  When Bond didn’t say anything, he asked, “Do you think he made it out?”

“Probably,” Bond said.  He came to sit next to Q in bed, wrapping one arm around his shoulders.  Q leaned into the touch.

There could be no going to save Trevelyan now.  Their ways had parted.

Q’s fingers twitched against the keyboard, and Bond took them in his own.  Gingerly, he kissed Q’s knuckles until they were flushed and pink.

“You don’t…”

Bond stopped, waiting for Q to finish his thought, but he didn’t say any more.  Bond pulled Q in tighter toward him, and the laptop slipped off of Q’s knees.  Q closed the cover and set it aside.

“We’re safe,” Bond murmured, speaking into Q’s hair.  Q came impossibly closer, nuzzling against Bond.  “We’re safe.”

“Do you remember Algiers?”

The question caught Bond off-guard, though he didn’t so much as flinch.  He hadn’t thought of Algiers in a long time, but he should have known that it would stick with Q long after the fact.  It had been one of his first real brushes with violence, with—

“You promised me you wouldn’t leave,” Q said.

_Ah_.  “I did,” Bond said, “and I haven’t.  I won’t.”

Q’s fingers continued to twitch.  “If you change your mind—”

Bond couldn’t allow him to finish.  Carefully, he pulled Q so that he sat on top of him.  Q wouldn’t meet his eyes, even as Bond brushed the hair out of his face, careful not to knock his glasses askew.

“Q,” he said, “what is it?”

“It’s my fault,” Q said.  Bond shook his head.  “If I’d noticed, at the beginning of all of this—Caldwell, Tidings, Bahrain—”

“Adam was careful,” Bond said.  “You’re not responsible.”

“But Alec is…”

Bond swallowed.  “Alec’s changed, Q,” he said.  “We’ve all changed.”

“That’s why I need to know,” Q said.  He still wouldn’t look Bond in the eyes.  “I need to know if you still love me.”

“Do you think that I’ve stopped?”

“No,” Q said.  “But if you feel obligated—”

Bond rolled them so that Q lay underneath him, trapped by Bond’s forearms.  For the first time since setting his laptop aside, Q met his gaze.

“This isn’t a tragic Shakespearean sonnet, Q,” Bond said, remembering that night in Algiers, when Q’s ribs were still hurt and Ines still walked the Earth.  “Our love isn’t some _object_ that can tarnish with time.  Brass and the boundless sea—no, no, Q.  Love is a choice, and I choose you.”

“I choose you, too,” Q said.  His lips quavered as they formed a smile.  “I wanted to make sure you still felt the same.”

Bond leaned down to kiss each of Q’s eyes, then his nose, then his lips.  It was far from their first kiss, and a far cry from three days ago, but it was a kiss rooted in love and devotion, timeless and absolute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends "Brass and the Boundless Sea". It's been a wild ride for me; I really thought this was going to be six chapters at maximum and that I'd be lucky if I cleared 10k. I've never been happier to be wrong. I have to thank mistflyer1102 one last time for going through each individual chapter with me, spending countless hours helping make this into what it is. I couldn't have done it alone. I hope that each of you have enjoyed it, too; drop me a line and tell me what you think!
> 
> Cheers,  
> JD


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